Salt'n'Burn
by btch sprinkles
Summary: With the gates of Heaven slammed shut, Castiel is gone and Dean Winchester is left heartbroken and alone. Sam, doing everything he can, decides to drag Dean all the way to the UK for a case in hopes of distracting his brother. John Watson has been seeing the image of his dead lover all over London. For Sam and Dean, this is a simple case of vengeful spirit. Or Is it?
1. Chapter 1

**Okay so I'm not even entirely sure where I came up with this idea. It just sort of hit me that with Sherlock's death and you know... the after effects, it would look like a vengeful spirit. So who better to combat a vengeful spirit than the Winchesters, right? Also I love Henry Knight sooooo so much, and I think that he and Sam would just be STUPID cute together. So... bear with me, okay? This fic is probably going to be two, MAYBE three parts because I can't do a massive multi-chaptered fic again. But pleeease let me know what you think. ! xx**

**chapter one**

"You don't understand, Dean, I have to do this." His voice was wrecked, cracking and painful, rough. It was possible the inside of his throat was bleeding, because honestly he was bleeding just about everywhere.

So much red, just all over, covering everything. Blood of the prophet, blood of angels and humans and just… Dean swallowed and tried not to look around at the carnage. "I do understand, and no, Cas, you don't. Okay, man? Just… please. Stop."

Castiel's hand was trembling as it held the knife up high, but his face was so set, so determined. "I can't stop. Not now."

"For me," Dean said.

Cas's hand faltered, his face just sort of… going still and quiet. Then he looked down at Dean for the first time since this whole mess started. He really looked at him, the blue eyes of his vessel meeting the green of Dean's and they locked like that. Cas's head began to shake slowly back and forth and when he spoke his voice was just so fucking broken. "But why? Why would you want me to stop, Dean? Don't you see? Don't you see everything Heaven and Hell have put you and your brother through? Everything I've put you through. Every time I've beat you within an inch of your life because I couldn't stop the control they have over me…"

Dean reached out, clinging onto Cas's free hanging wrist, and he pulled. Cas didn't budge, but Dean didn't let go. "I don't care about that."

"But you should," Cas said, and now he sounded angry.

"Why?" Dean said. "That's the whole point of this free will thing, right? Right, Cas? That's the fucking point is that it's up to me whether or not I get to care. And for the record, you son of a bitch, you did stop before you killed me. Okay? You know it, and I know it, and there's no denying that once you wanted the connection to be broken, it was."

"Until they reset me again," Cas said, and a bitter tear leaked out of his eye, though he wasn't really crying.

Dean shook his head and shoved Cas's arm away. "And then we fixed it, again. And we'll keep fixing it until they give up because I'm not giving you up. Do you understand me."

Cas blinked down at Dean, then looked up at the knife and then down at the floor where the final sacrifice lay. His fingers shook harder. "Give me one reason to stay. One valid reason, and I will put this knife down and walk away."

Dean let out a shaking laugh and shook his head. "Haven't I given you enough, man? Isn't me being here enough for you?"

Cas shook his head, knowing it was cruel, knowing it killed Dean a little, but he needed more than that. "No. It's not enough."

"I need you, Cas. We're family and nothing will ever change that. You can't just lock yourself away with those sons of bitches. You and I both know Metatron lied. It's not shutting the gates for a little while. This is for-fucking-ever. I'm not going to live without you forever." In this moment, Dean was not above begging. He was not above crying, which he was, and he just… he just needed Cas to stop. God, just… stop.

But Cas shook his head again and met Dean's eyes once more. "You've never needed me , and we both know it. I'm sorry Dean, but I have to do this. It's the only way to protect you from myself."

And Dean rose up high on his knees and reached out, grabbing for the blood-stained trench coat and he screamed, "Castiel I Lov—"

But it was too late, and Cas didn't want to hear Dean say that, because it would have changed his mind, and he would have stopped, and the cycle would go on forever. Never ending. And Cas couldn't let it. So he struck the final blow and before Dean's hand could close around the coat, he was gone. It was all gone. The bodies, the blood, the gore, the pain. It all slammed shut as every heavenly body was sucked into the portal of Heaven and the gates slammed shut. Forever.

And then there was Dean. Alive, but shredded from the inside and slowly bleeding to death. Maybe it would take years. Maybe months. Maybe just a matter of hours. The concrete under his face was ice cold as he laid there and let himself actually cry. He sobbed, into the quiet echo of the now empty room for the first time since he'd met that angel. For the first time since he realized that his heart and soul belonged to one creature, and now that thing, that winged piece of shit who took Dean's heart with him and locked it away for eternity, was gone. There was no going back.

Sam came, eventually, and picked Dean up. He took him home and cleaned him up. He fed him, and made him shower, and bought him an Xbox and every horror movie he could find. The words Angel and Thursday were banned in the house. He took Dean out to drive the Impala and they went to a few concerts. It was everything he could do and it wasn't enough. It never would be.

qp

"Enough is enough," Sam said, strolling into Dean's room almost a year to the day after the gates of Heaven slammed shut. Dean was sitting on his gamer chair with his Xbox headset on. He was tearing up zombies, a beer next to the chair, and Sam was pretty sure Dean hadn't showered in a few days. But… he looked okay. Ish. Not great, but he'd looked worse.

The anniversary of losing Cas was coming up and truthfully, Sam was scared that Dean was going to die. Maybe not take his life, but be a lot less careful with it than normal. Sam didn't understand the ache of living without Cas, but he knew the ache of living without Dean and that just… that just wasn't going to happen. End of story.

"What's enough?" Dean finally asked after he reached a point where he could pause. He looked up at Sam and rubbed his eyes. "What are you blabbering on about?"

"We have a case," Sam said.

Dean's eyebrows rose. "A case? Are you kidding me, Sammy? We don't do cases anymore. In case you forgot, we put a stop to all that shit."

"In case you forgot, it wasn't just demons and… other stuff… that existed here. The monsters didn't just disappear because their big bad daddies got locked away." Sam was feeling impatient, mostly because he knew he had to get Dean really goddamn far away from his batcave. And soon.

Dean sighed and pulled off his headset. He stood, stretched and grimaced at his own smell. "Damn. I need a shower."

"Yeah, you do," Sam said. "And you need to pack."

Dean rolled his eyes and began to rummage around his closet for a towel that didn't feel like a small animal crawled inside and died in the folds. "Pack for where, exactly?"

"Well I've found us a case, possible vengeful spirit, but it's kind of… far."

Dean stood up and glared at his younger brother. "Far? How far?"

Sam smiled, blushing a little because he knew what Dean was going to say, but he wasn't going to take the no for an answer. "The case is in London, Dean, and I've booked the tickets already. So go shower and I'll fill you in when you're done."

After a lot of swearing, more swearing than Sam had heard in a while, and a little bit of a tantrum, and about four broken glasses, Dean finally sat at the table. He was half-ready to listen, and half-ready to strangle Sam because the younger Winchester knew how he felt about planes. If he was going to die, he did not want to go out that way. No goddamn thank you.

Sam had his laptop open and he twirled it around so Dean could see. It was a blog. Something simple, blue background, a few tabs on the sides. Decent hit count for just some random guy, and his picture was in the corner, small and unobtrusive. He was a decent looking guy, too, sort of average with sandy blonde hair, round nose and he wasn't smiling.

"This guy is Dr. John Watson," Sam said.

"So?" Dean asked.

Sam rolled his eyes. "I wasn't finished. He works as a consultant for Scotland Yard in London. Now, he used to live with a man…"

"Lover?" Dean asked with an eyebrow waggle.

"Hard to say," he said, ignoring the sarcastic smirk on his brother's face. "My guess is yes, although their history was pretty complicated. Anyway, the blog of Dr. Watson had been quite for several months, but it looks like about four weeks ago, he started posting again. He's claimed that he's been seeing his former partner all over. In grocery stores, at the park, just random stuff like that."

"Okay?" Dean asked with a frown. "So he's being haunted?"

"Well get this," Sam said, and put on his very serious research face. He clicked on another browser window. "I did some research on Sherlock—the former housemate—and it looks like he was some big-shot detective about three years ago."

"Before he died," Dean said.

"Before he committed suicide," Sam corrected, his eyebrows flying up. He began to get that excited, we've found serious information look on his face that Dean both hated and loved. "It turns out, around the time that this Dr. Watson began seeing Sherlock around, people started to die. Criminal big-wigs in the UK. People that had been after Sherlock in the past, and people that Dr. Watson believes were related to his death."

Dean sat back, intrigued now, but not totally convinced. "So why did he commit suicide? Are we sure it wasn't a murder."

"Turns out that Sherlock was proven to be a fraud," Sam said ,tapping the screen with his finger. "I guess right before he jumped off a building, some media reporter came forward with evidence saying that Sherlock had actually fooled everyone. He had set up the various crimes he'd solved in order to get attention. The morning the story went live, Sherlock jumped off a building."

"Cremated?" Dean asked, now picking his teeth with the straw of an empty soda cup.

"Buried," Sam said. "It's a classic case of vengeful spirit."

"Yeah but…" Dean hesitated, giving a little shrug. "A vengeful spirit is pretty low-grade, even for us, Sammy. I mean, why the hell are we going to fly across a fucking ocean for a salt'n'burn? Don't we know some hunters over there who can take care of this? I mean, hell, they're probably on the case right now anyway if it's making the papers."

"I made a few calls," Sam said slowly, "and asked them to let us take it."

Dean's eyes went wide. "Why the hell?"

"Because you need to get out, okay?" Sam said loudly. "You need to pull yourself out of this grave you dug and do something. I'm not going to just sit here while you waste away. I know that Cas is gone, and it fucking sucks, and I can't even imagine the pain you're in. But… but you know, I'm still here. We've been to heaven, hell, purgatory and back. We saved the world from those bastards ever being able to touch it again, and damn it, Dean. I'm right here with you, and I'm not going to let you just roll over now that we're done. Okay?"

Honestly, Sam didn't know what to expect from Dean. Swearing, maybe? Even Dean just lunging across the table and beating the shit out of him. Breaking his laptop, or throwing a chair. What he didn't expect was for Dean to drop his head down onto the table and just cry.

It was awkward, to say the least, and for the first full minute Sam wasn't quite sure what to do. Sure Dean cried. He cried that one, solitary tear down his cheek when shit got really, really bad. But this was… this was actual crying. Tears, hitched breath, hands clenched into fists, trying to push away a pain that wasn't ever really going to go away.

Sam eventually got it together enough to kneel in front of his brother and hug him. Truth was, Dean loved hugs, it was how he connected to people, and when Sam wrapped his arms around his big brother, Dean really lost it. He hadn't cried like that in a year, and by the time Sam had found him in that warehouse after Cas had gone, all that had been left were a few hiccups and dry heaves.

Dean just sort of… let it out. He was muttering behind the sobs, angry words, hateful words because Cas really had just left him. He'd taken him, turned him into someone who could not only love, but be loved, and before Dean could actually do anything about it, before Dean could show Cas how much love he had in him, he went and locked himself away and it was so un-fucking-fair.

Sam just held Dean, and eventually the sobs stopped, and he sat up and his eyes were red and swollen, but dry. He looked a little embarrassed, but Sam squeezed the top of Dean's thighs to tell him that it just didn't really matter anymore, and that he got it... as much of it as he could get.

"Let's go," Dean said. "When's the flight leave?"

"Ten AM," was all Sam said, because he would revel in his triumph later. Now he just had to get Dean on the plane.

qp

He felt bad about it, but not bad enough to stop himself from drugging Dean's drink on the plane, and by the time they were half-way across the ocean, Dean was snoring and Sam was reading a book and feeling pretty proud of himself. There had only been one panic attack during take-off and once the drug had taken effect, it was smooth sailing. Or… flying. Whatever. It didn't matter because they were on their way, Dean was out of the house, and he'd actually cried.

He hadn't want to talk about Cas with Sam, and Sam doubted Dean ever would, but he'd at least showed emotion. He wasn't just sitting in front of his TV existing in a half-life while the world went by. The world, by the way they'd saved so many goddamn times that it owed them. A lot.

Dean gave a little snore and shuffled himself off to face the window and Sam smiled a little, flashing back to road trips when they were kids. Before everything went to hell. Before Angels and Demons and living without each other. Before Heaven and Hell and everything in between. It was just the boys, and the hunt, and the road, and it was… all fine. They could live like that.

Sam closed his book and stared at his brother for a long time. He was thinner than he'd ever been, dark rings under his eyes, and he was existing but he wasn't healing. He did hate Cas for all of this, because Cas could have stopped. He could have heard Dean out. He could have told Dean that goddamn it, he loved him, too and he was doing this because of that.

"Not sure if you can hear me up there," Sam said. He peered out the window as they flew above the clouds and wondered how close to Heaven they really were. "Not sure if you can do anything about it, either. I'm guessing not, because that was sort of the point. But he misses you, you know. He… he's never going to get over this. Over you. We still wonder if we go to heaven when we die. Or if that whole thing just shut it down, because I think the only thing keeping him going is that when we finally do die, when we get our reprieve, he's going to see you again up there. God damn it, Cas. If you'd just… just…" but Sam couldn't finish because there just weren't any more words to express how he felt. He could only hope Cas could hear him, that part of their penance was the Angel's having to listen to the prayers of humans as they sat trapped behind the gates that would never open again.

The flight felt longer than it should have, but the plane touched down just as Dean was coming to, and though he seemed a bit miffed that he'd been drugged, Sam knew his brother appreciated it. On some level. Currently he was swearing at Sam and attempting to shake off the groggy feeling from the drugs.

They got their bags and eventually reached their hotel, a place suspiciously close to the address where John Watson was reported to live. A 221B Baker Street. Dean was still in no mood to deal with anything or anyone, so the next morning Sam loaded him up with food and television and then went out to meet the local hunters, a man named Andrew and his wife, Fiona.

They were older, which surprised Sam as he slid across from them at the café. Andrew looked to be in his mid-fifties, and Fiona near there with their greying hair and crow's feet at the eyes. But they'd been through a lot, enough, Sam could tell from the scars on their hands and arms. They nodded to Sam and offered him a sip of holy water, which he took to be polite. So far no demons had been reported to have escaped, but one couldn't be too careful.

Andrew and Fiona did the same with the water, and then they ordered sandwiches and coffee. "So here's everything you requested," Andrew said, and he pushed a duffel bag under the table to Sam's feet. "Where's your brother, by the way?"

"He gets sick from flying," Sam lied easily. "He's at the hotel, but once he's up and about, I'll contact you."

"So you honestly flew all this way to burn the bones of some bloke who died a few years ago? Who hasn't even been killing innocent people?" Fiona asked, her eyes slightly wide. "Sounds a bit mad to me, to be honest."

Sam drank down some of the coffee and gave a little sigh. "It's a little more complicated than that. It's… it's less the hunt, and more the fact that if I didn't get my brother out of the house, he was probably going to die."

"Well we've heard the rumors about you two," Andrew said, shaking his head. "Michael, Lucifer and their lot. I mean, I reckon you're Hollywood star famous anywhere you go in the world, with our kind."

Sam shook his head, feeling a little uncomfortable about the entire situation. It was those fucking books, and the fact that hunters just couldn't keep their damn mouths shut, even when it was information that didn't matter. "Well, like I said, it's complicated."

"It's Castiel, right?" Fiona asked.

Sam's face fell. "It's probably for the best if you don't bring up Castiel to my brother."

"Right, yeah," she said and looked away, slightly embarrassed. "It's just… those books you know…"

"Yeah, we know," Sam grumbled. "Point is, it's a tender subject. I'm trying to get Dean to focus on other things right now. In fact, once we get this job taken care of, if you hear of any others, please let us know. We don't want to overstep our bounds, being that this is your territory, but the longer I can keep him away, the better."

"No problem," Andrew said. "Ever since you two took care of business with those damn demons, it's been near dead silent here. What d'you reckon, love? Eight, nine months since a real job?"

"Close to it," Fiona said with a shrug. "We owe you two a big thanks."

Sam's mouth twitched up, just a little, because it didn't really feel like he'd done anything great. He'd nearly died, they'd lost the one thing Dean really loved, and it was all for what? Only time would tell if humans were better off without the creatures above and below trying to run the show. Humans could be pretty fucked up all on their own. One of the reasons they were capable of becoming demons.

Sam took his leave of the pair with the duffel bag in hand. They hadn't been able to take anything they actually needed on the plane without arousing suspicion, so Sam had to call in that favor. They had a couple of shot guns now, salt rounds, a massive bag of kosher salt—which he thought was an interesting choice—and several liters of lighter fluid. It would be just enough to take care of this job.

"Aww Sammy, you brought me a present," Dean said, eyeing the bag as Sam walked through the door. He grabbed it and inspected the contents. "We've solved a lot worse with a lot less."

"I contacted a hunter couple and they said anything we need they can take care of," Sam replied as he flopped down on the bed. The hotel felt like any other hotel they'd ever stayed in. Musty sheets, stale air, springy mattresses. TV decades too old, stains on the ceiling, and a really loud couple next door who were probably having an affair.

"So what should we do? Just pop the grave and burn the bones tonight?" Dean asked.

"Well I thought we might want to talk to this Dr. Watson first," Sam said. "Make sure that there isn't something else this Sherlock person might be hanging on to. I don't want to assume that burning his bones is going to take care of the job."

"Yeah… good plan," Dean said. "Then we get a drink."

"Dean, it's ten in the morning," Sam said.

"Yeah, and I'm on goddamn vacation, Sammy. So first we talk to this doctor guy, and then we get a goddamn beer."

Sam was in no position to actually argue, so he gave a resigned sigh and followed his brother outside. The hotel was literally around the corner from the front door belonging to Dr. John Watson, and Dean wasted no time banging on it with a closed fist.

Sam pushed his brother out of the way, concerned about Dean's mood, and gave a warm, charming smile to the short, older woman who answered the door. "Can I help you boys?" she asked.

"Hi," Sam said, trying to do that thing that Dean said made his eyes twinkle, "we're here to see Dr. Watson?"

The woman frowned, puffing up a little in a protective manner and she crossed her arms. "Is he expecting you boys?"

Sam looked over at Dean who was messing around with his phone, and sighed. "No. Uh… we just… we wanted to drop by. There was something we wanted to discuss with him." The woman was clearly not impressed with Sam's charms, but to his delight, Sam saw a shorter man walking behind her and he said, "We read his recent blog and we know why it's happening."

The man behind the woman froze and turned. She looked concerned, but she was pushed out of the way and the person who had to be Dr. John Watson stepped in front of Sam. Sam, of course, towered over the shorter man, but somehow managed to feel cowed by Dr. Watson's intense stare. The man had been through hell, that was clear, and he wasn't about to take any shit from a couple of Americans who wanted to have a laugh at the blogging doctor who was seeing things.

"Who are you?" he asked, sizing Sam and Dean up with a firm glance.

"My name's Sam, and this is my brother Dean. We're… specialists," Sam said, for lack of a better word.

John flinched at the term, but then stepped aside to let the Winchesters enter. Sam gave a nod as he passed and before long, they went upstairs to start solving the case of the Death of Sherlock Holmes.


	2. Chapter 2

The first thing Sam took note of as the stepped into the living area of the apartment was that it was excessively orderly. Not just a neat-freak type of orderly, but something one might find in the home of say, a blind person. Everything was labeled and just so, and nothing was out of place. Dr. Watson, youngish, but had eyes centuries old, walked with a limp. His hair-cut and straight-backed demeanor told Sam he was ex-military. Sam had seen that sort of haunted look before. He'd grown up with it shouting insults at him and believing, in the end, he'd been responsible for the death of his mother.

Sam was instantly uncomfortable. He was offered tea, though, which he accepted for both himself and Dean after Dean pulled a face like he wouldn't be caught dead drinking something like that. Dr. Please-Call-Me-John went into the kitchen while the Winchesters made themselves at home on the sofa, looking around.

Dean gave a low whistle and leaned over to murmur out of the corner of his mouth, "Kind of a weirdo, eh Sammy?"

Sam rolled his eyes and elbowed his brother because it wasn't fair to assume that. He glanced around to more properly assess the situation. It was odd. Although this Sherlock person had been dead for nearly three years, it seemed like two people lived in the home. And not the old lady, either, because it was clear she kept her own quarters somewhere downstairs, or at least down the hall.

There was a hoodie draped across the back of a chair, and on the coffee table was two rings from a glass, fairly fresh. And then Sam heard down the hall a door slam and footsteps. A second later, a somewhat short, reedy young man with floppy brown hair and wide eyes came in the room. He was wearing glasses, had a smattering of freckles across his nose that Sam found instantly adorable. He gave a smile, his lips shaking.

"We've got guests, then?" he called out.

John popped his head out of the kitchen and promptly blushed. "Ah yes, sorry Henry. I thought you were still out." John straightened himself again and said, "This is Henry Knight. I still don't believe I know your names."

The corners of Sam's lips twitched just slightly, bemused at John's forgetfulness because he didn't really seem the type to be completely off his rocker, nor was he old enough to be suffering from memory loss. Trauma, he had to assume, because he'd seen enough odd behavior like that from Dean. Though Dean's was usually attributed to lack of sleep, too much booze, and way too much internet porn.

"Sam Winchester," he finally said, crossing the distance to shake hands with Henry.

Henry looked at John for approval before offering his own hand and then nodded. "Sorry, I just wasn't expecting anyone over."

"Yeah we just sort of dropped by," Dean said with a slight wink to the kid. "I'm Dean by the way."

"My brother," Sam clarified for John who was looking between them with a frown. "We uh… we've come about your problem with your former uh…"

"Right yes," Henry said. "I might um… might um pop out for a bit. If you don't mind?"

"Fine Henry, see you later," John said. He visibly startled when the kettle began to whistle, and busied himself for a few more minutes with the cups.

Sam could see him fussing around the kitchen almost hysterically and turned a concerned gaze back to his brother.

"Dude's a little…" Dean twirled his finger around his temple.

"Can you blame him, Dean?" Sam asked. "I mean the man's lost his companion and then three years later the guy starts showing up again in random places. I think you forget most people aren't used to that sort of thing happening."

Dean licked his lips and the unspoken, 'what if you started seeing Cas everywhere' hovered between them. Because in all honesty, it was like Dean's lover had died, and in all honesty Dean would probably be just as freaked out if Cas started popping up at random places.

"Here we are, hope black is okay. It's all I've got a the moment," John said, laying the tray down on the table.

"That's fine. You didn't have to go to all that trouble," Sam said, and shot Dean a furious glare when his brother grabbed one of the chocolate-topped cake things from one of the plates and crammed it into his mouth.

"Oh hell yes, these are great. What do you call these things?" Dean asked, crumbs spraying everywhere.

Sam's face lit up bright red, mortified at his brother's behavior while John, slightly flustered, said, "Ah Jaffa cakes. I imagine you don't have those over in the States."

"Nah. We have pie though. Pie's great," Dean said and looked a little dreamy.

Sam huffed and then regained the doctor's attention. "So your problem. You said in your blog that you were suddenly seeing the image of um…"

"Sherlock. Holmes." John's hand trembled a little as he reached for his tea. "And yes. It started a few weeks ago when I popped out to grab milk. I was rounding the corner near the market and I caught a glimpse of something… someone… who looked exactly like him walking out of a building. He got into a cab and I chased it as far as I could before I lost him. It's how I injured my hip."

Sam gave a slow nod. "So he got into a cab." Well that didn't sound very ghostly at all. Ghosts didn't usually employ public transport to get where they needed to go. Sam was beginning to doubt this was a case at all, and maybe just three years worth of grief taking over, making the poor man crack.

"I… that's what I thought I saw. Honestly I was so far away, I couldn't entirely make out what was happening. It was Saturday so it was terribly busy and I…" he trailed off. "Anyway, it didn't stop there. I saw him after that walking by Lestrade's office."

"Lestrade?" Sam asked.

"What the hell kind of name is Lestrade?" Dean added and Sam shot him another firm glare telling him to shut the hell up.

"He's the Detective Inspector," John said almost absently. He sipped his tea. "Equivalent to your Police Chief's I suppose. Sort of. It's a bit more complicated than that. Anyhow, then twice at the cemetery I swore he was there, but when I tried to follow he was just… gone."

"I don't mean to sound patronizing," Sam said slowly, watching the poor man's shaking hands set down the tea cup without spilling a drop, "but are you sure it was him? Often times grief can do strange things to our perceptions…"

"I realize that, Mr. Winchester," John said, his voice growing immediately hard. "I'm not an idiot, you realize. I'm a doctor, for Christ's sake, so even talking about this is ridiculous. But… whatever it is, it's happening. I do realize it's not him, obviously. I was there when he… when he…" John paused and took a breath. "When he jumped, Mr. Winchester. I watched him fall, and I identified his body twice. I was on the phone with him right before he leapt." His voice cracked at the end and he gave a very tense smile. "Forgive me. It's been three years, which seems like it should be enough time…"

"You can't put a time limit on your grief, man. We get it," Dean said with heavy weight behind his words. When John looked at him, surprised by his sudden insightful statement Dean clarified. "I lost someone, too. About a year ago. It hasn't stopped sucking."

John's lips twitched into a small smile and he nodded. "It doesn't seem to get any easier."

"We've read recently that there have been mysterious deaths as well. Can you tell us about those?"

So John did, going into detail which bored Dean, but Sam logged away about the crime ring syndicate that Sherlock had been attempting to take down before his death. Sam noted that despite being revealed as a fraud, John steadfastly believed that Sherlock was not. Whatever had happened, it was directly related to a man named Moriarty who was also found dead, gunshot wound to the head, the same day Sherlock died.

"I'm not entirely sure who you are or why you're here, but I'm grateful if you have any thoughts on the matter."

Sam rubbed the bottom of his chin for a moment. His money was on vengeful spirit, if there really was one. Honestly the clues weren't really lining up on this one, and if it weren't for the deaths of the criminals, he'd think that John was just suffering a psychotic breakdown.

"What about that man who was here earlier? Henry something?"

"Knight," John said. "We met him on a case a few years ago and when he heard about Sherlock's… death… he came by and just sort of stayed."

"Are you two uh…"

"Lovers?" John asked, and smiled. "No. I'm not actually gay. My relationship with Sherlock was complicated at best. He wasn't a typical man. He was something different and… it's hard to explain."

"Trust me, we get it," Dean said, his voice fresh and raw. Too many parallels with Castiel, and Sam was desperately starting to regret this job. He'd been trying to distract his brother, not shove him into a case exactly like the pain he was trying to escape.

"So… who are you, exactly?" John asked. "What's the point of you being here?"

Sam opened his mouth to speak, but Dean suddenly took over, leaning forward and grabbing another Jaffa cake. "Well Dr. Watson, my brother and I are what you'd call hunters. We investigate instances of paranormal activity, vengeful spirits, stuff like that, and we hunt and kill them. I'd say about ninety percent of what people report is total bullshit, but occasionally we stumble onto something very real. We think it's possible that your friend Sherlock might have returned to take revenge on those responsible for his death."

John sat there, slightly open mouthed staring at them, and then, surprising both brothers, he laughed. "You… you're joking, right? Ghost hunters? Like… like ghostbusters?"

"No, not like ghostbusters," Dean all-but snapped. "We do actual work and save actual people. I realize it might sound ridiculous to someone like you, but we're here to help."

John pursed his lips and shook his head. "It's a bit far-fetched is all I'm saying."

"You got any other ideas about what it could be?" Dean asked, his mouth now full of another cake. "We're all ears, doc."

John licked his lips almost nervously and then looked at Sam, who had been the most reasonable during this entire conversation. "Ghost hunters?"

"It's not that specific, or cut-and-dry. But in this case, yes." Sam tried to sound as straight-forward as he could, so as not to scare the doctor off. It was clear this John Watson didn't believe in ghosts.

John gave a slight laugh and shook his head. "I hope you realize how ridiculous that sounds."

"You have no idea," Dean muttered.

"Look, John, we understand what we do might be hard for some people to believe, and we accept that. We're only here to help."

"I… fine," John said, sounding defeated. "What do you need from me?"

"Do you have anything of his that was of particular importance to him?" Sam asked. "And if you have a picture we could take a look at?"

John hesitated, but eventually stood up and walked out of the room. The moment he did, Dean sat up and leaned into Sam. "That dude is on the edge, Sammy. I mean look at him. He's two shakes away from putting a gun in his mouth and blowing his brains out."

Sam flinched, but knew his brother wasn't wrong. He'd seen it a hundred times in the thousands upon thousands of ghost cases they'd taken. The image of a lost loved one haunting those the ghost had left behind. The ones mourning, aching, desperate to have their loved one back. Suicide wasn't uncommon in this business, and John Watson was nearly there.

A few moments later, John returned with a small, framed photograph. He handed it to Sam and sat back down, looking at the brothers expectantly. "Sherlock didn't hold material items in any esteem. The most precious thing he owned was his mobile phone, and that was cracked and broken at the scene so it was thrown away."

The brothers looked at the photo. They recognized Sherlock from the articles they'd studied. He was an incredibly striking man, very tall, sharp features and piercing blue eyes. His hair was curly, floppy, hanging at his ears almost unkempt. In the picture, he was standing next to another man they didn't recognize. The second man was slightly shorter than Sherlock, thinning dishwater blonde hair, features pinched and sour.

"Who's this?" Sam asked, tapping the second man.

"Ah, that would be Mycroft, Sherlock's elder brother," John said with very little inflection to his voice.

Sam frowned as Dean muttered, "Dude, what's up with the names here?"

Sam rolled his eyes and set the photo down on the table. "Any chance we could talk to his brother?"

John smiled a little, a sort of bitter mirth, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Likely not. First being if you told him you were investigating the ghost of his brother, he'd laugh in your face and then have you deported. Second being that he's pretty much the British Government itself and near impossible to get a hold of unless he needs something from you." John paused and wiped a trembling hand down his face. "Besides, I doubt he has much to do with this. Mycroft divorced himself from this entire situation the moment he heard his brother was dead."

"So there's not any chance this Mycroft," Dean said, struggling with the name a bit, "would be dabbling in oh… say black magic? To try and quell the grief of losing his sibling?"

John barked a laugh, startling both brothers, and shook his head. "Mycroft? Ah, no, I'm afraid if anyone would be dabbling in black magic, it would not be him. Besides, there was very little love lost between the brothers when Sherlock died. They weren't very…"

But Sam understood where John was going with that, so he quickly changed the subject. "Well thank you, Dr. Watson. We really appreciate your time and information." That was the signal, and Dean quickly stuffed his pockets with the last of the Jaffa cakes before standing up.

John frowned at the gesture, but was obviously too low to care much about stolen cakes, and instead walked the brothers to the front door. "So… so what now? What do you do now? I mean, not that I believe you but, how do you get rid of a ghost?"

The brothers exchanged glances. They didn't really want to tell this grieving doctor that they would have to burn the bones of his dead lover. It wasn't something people wanted to think about or hear. Not when they were in pain like this.

"We're going to encourage it to move on," Sam finally said, earning a snort from Dean, but he ignored it. "Listen, if you see him again, call us, okay? Here's the number of our hotel, and here's my cell." Sam scribbled the numbers on the back of a receipt and handed it to John.

"And what if he tries to kill me?" John asked suddenly, his eyes blank and lips trembling.

Sam gave a sigh and knowing he was probably overstepping his boundaries, he reached out and squeezed the doctor's shoulder. "Salt. Salt and iron repel ghosts. I know it sounds ridiculous, but trust us on this, okay? If you see him and he comes at you, make yourself a circle of salt and then call us."

John looked at Sam's hand on his shoulder and then gave a small, humorless laugh. "You know I don't believe a word of this, right? I've seen some strange things in my day but this…"

Sam gave him a smile and then the boys were gone and John Watson had disappeared back into his flat. They got only a few steps before Dean hesitated and stopped his brother. "Look man, I'm not sure I'm comfortable leaving him like this."

"Like what?" Sam asked with a frown.

"All… all fucked up and suicidal," Dean insisted.

"Dean, we can't be sure he was actually suicidal."

Dean rolled his eyes and leaned against the low wall of the building. "Don't be stupid, Sammy. You were in that apartment right along with me. You saw it. They were running low on food, he was wearing clothes that were days old. He stopped giving a shit weeks ago, and believe me man, I've been there. Okay? For weeks, every time I thought of Cas I just kept…" but Dean couldn't go on, and frankly, Sam didn't want him to. He didn't want to hear how Dean contemplated putting a gun in his mouth and ending it.

"Okay so what do you want us to do? We need to figure out if there really is a ghost, and even if there is, we can't just force this guy to go on living. If he's going to kill himself, there isn't much we can do to stop him." Sam hated saying all of this, but it was all true. They didn't know this John Watson, and Sam couldn't be sure how close to death the man really was.

Dean, however, shook his head. "Sam, what's the point of even being here if we're not going to bother helping that guy?" The statement was very un-Dean-like and that fact alone concerned Sam. Tomorrow would be the one-year anniversary that Heaven was shut down and Cas was gone, and Sam wanted to do anything but remind Dean about his loss.

Before Sam could respond to Dean, however, the elder Winchester elbowed Sam and nodded across the street. "Look, there's the roommate."

"Yeah, what was his name? Henry something?"

Dean shrugged. "You think those two are getting it on?"

Sam shook his head as he watched the overly-timid man duck into the coffee shop across the street. "No. You heard what the doctor said. He's not gay, he just sort of had a thing… you know… with Sherlock."

Dean rubbed his hand through his hair and gave a sigh. "Yeah, and I get it. Do you think maybe this kid's seen something?"

"Might as well check," Sam agreed. "The more information we have, the better. Especially if we're going to dig up bones and burn them."

The brothers checked for traffic and then darted across the street. They could see Henry at the counter ordering a coffee, so instead of going in, they waited outside, trying to look casual and unobtrusive. Henry didn't take long, and the moment he stepped out, Sam and Dean approached him, one brother on either side.

"Mind if we have a word?" Sam asked.

Henry looked from one brother to the other, his lips twitching with his frayed nerves, and he gave a shrug. "Sh-sure," he stuttered. "Um… what about?"

"Sherlock," Dean said. He eased Henry into a short alley and the three of them stopped.

"What about him?" Henry asked, looking as nervous as he felt.

"Well, your friend up there, Dr. Watson," Dean said, nodding toward the door of 221B, "thinks he's seeing him everywhere. You ever see him? Or you know, notice anything strange? Temperature differences, things going missing or moved?"

Henry frowned and took a step back from the brothers. "Look, I'm not sure I want to—"

Sam put his hands out in a surrender. "Look, Henry, we just want to help, okay? That's all we're here for. We don't charge a fee or anything, we're not trying to take advantage of the doctor. This is what we do, and we just want to make sure that Dr. Watson is safe."

Henry's face was still now, stoic and still a little hesitant but he didn't look nearly so afraid. "Alright well…" he hesitated, but only for a moment. "I've never seen him. Sherlock. At least, not after he you know… died. I um… I have noticed things, though. Not temperature changes but… but sometimes things will go missing. You know, like papers and envelopes and stuff. A few things that used to belong to Sherlock, like old lab equipment from the kitchen. Glass phials, a microscope. Things John noticed but never said anything about. At first I thought he was moving on… throwing things away? But… but then he started commenting when stuff would go missing. And I swear, sometimes it feels like there's been someone in the flat after we've been out. I can't explain it."

"Well we can," Dean said. "We're pretty sure that this Sherlock guy didn't move on after he died. Committing suicide is some serious shit, even for the most put-together soul."

"What are you talking about?" Henry asked.

"We're talking about a haunting," Sam said slowly. "A vengeful spirit. I realize it sounds crazy but…"

"I believe you," Henry said quickly. "I mean, I'm sure John thinks you're mad but… but I believe you."

Both brothers, though skeptical still, shared a relieved glance with each other. "Is there any information you can give us? Anything that might draw the spirit of Sherlock out into the open?" Sam knew they could summon him but he wanted to avoid rituals if at all possible.

Henry shrugged and gave his head a shake. "No… no nothing I can think of. If I do I… I can come find you?"

Sam fished out another crumpled receipt and wrote down the phone numbers. "We're probably going to scout out the cemetery tonight and see if we find anything."

Henry's lips twitched and then he said, "Not sure if it matters, but… but tomorrow is the anniversary that Sherlock you know… jumped."

Back at the hotel, Sam was pacing and Dean was lounging on the bed, drinking. They hadn't said much to each other for a while, both reeling at the coincidence of Sherlock's death and the day Castiel went back to Heaven for good. Sam was royally pissed off, honestly, because the whole point of this was to avoid anything to do with Cas, and every step they took was just taking Dean further and further into his downward spiral.

"It doesn't mean anything," Sam muttered, mostly to himself, forgetting just for a second that Dean was sitting there.

"Oh bullshit, Sammy. When has a coincidence in our lives ever meant nothing? Give me a break, man."

Sam's face pinked a little and he turned to Dean with a sigh. "Look, I realize that this is a tough day for you, okay. I do. But…"

"But nothing. You know what, tomorrow's going to suck, whether I'm holed up in my room drinking myself into a stupor or whether I'm sitting in some shitty motel in fucking London investigating the death of a man someone was cruel enough to name Sherlock. It doesn't goddamn matter, Sam. It's going to suck. But you know what, have some faith in me, okay? I'm not that doctor guy. I'm not ten steps away from putting a bullet in my brain. Not yet, and you know, if Cas doesn't pull shit like this Sherlock dude and make random-ass appearances, maybe I never will be. I'm fucking sad, and I'm dealing with it, but look at me now, I'm sharing my feelings while getting drunk, and I'm still here. And… and fine."

And Sam knew that while Dean wasn't fine, he was there, and maybe he should have a little more faith in his brother. Maybe, after everything they'd been through, Dean had found, somewhere, a will to live.

"Okay," Sam said with a nod. "Okay. Fair enough. I'll stop worrying."

Sam wasn't going to actually stop worrying, but he pulled back enough to let Dean take the lead when they decided to head out to the cemetery to investigate the gravesite of Sherlock Holmes. They managed to get a hold of Fiona and Andrew and grab and EMF reader, and as they crept through the creepily foggy cemetery, it stayed silent as the grave.

"Weird," Dean said as they circled the grave and the surrounding area. "Not a blip. We usually get something in a cemetery."

Sam frowned as he scanned the area, but had to agree with Dean, this was probably a bust. "Well, I guess we can try a summoning spell," he said.

"Might work better tomorrow on the anniversary, though," Dean suggested. "Let's check out where the dude jumped in the morning, and if we don't turn up anything there, let's do a routine salt'n'burn and then go from there."

Sam shrugged, not able to think of a better plan, and they decided to head out. As they were walking back to the rental car, a movement made Sam turn. It was small and subtle, but it gave him the chills. Still, the EMF was on and totally dead, so he had to assume it was just nerves getting to him.

They went back to the hotel where Sam jumped on the laptop and Dean drank himself to sleep. He didn't blame his brother, of course, but it didn't stop the worry that some day his brother really would end up like that poor doctor who had just given up on life.

An hour later, just as Sam was starting to feel tired, his cell phone rang, startling him. He glanced at Dean, who didn't budge, and then picked up without checking who might be on the line. "Yeah?"

"Uh is this one of the uh… Winchesters?" Sam recognized the hesitant, shaking voice of Henry on the other line.

"Yeah. Henry?"

"I um… I'm sorry if I woke you, but I wanted to know if you could meet me? I'm worried about Dr. Watson and um…"

"Yeah no problem. I'm right around the corner." Sam gave him the hotel info, and five minutes later, Henry was standing at the door. Sam let him in and when Henry cast a worried look at the unconscious Dean, Sam waved the concern away. "He's going to sleep through any and everything, don't worry."

Henry nodded and sat, taking the offered glass of whiskey that Sam poured for the both of them, and said, "Thanks."

"So is Dr. Watson okay?" Sam asked as he sat across from the younger man. "You sounded really upset."

"I don't know," Henry confessed. "Ever since he started seeing Sherlock everywhere he's just… he's been a mess. I mean, he's stopped eating, he barely sleeps, he doesn't talk to me anymore. He sort of just sits around and stares at the wall and I'm afraid…" he hesitated, looking up with watery eyes. "I'm afraid he's dying."

Sam's heart twisted for the poor kid who obviously cared about this John Watson. "You love him, don't you?"

Henry looked startled and then shook his head. "It's not like that. I mean, Dr. Watson isn't… you know. Even though I am. And really, he just helped me out of a very terrible situation and I thought the least I could do was return the favor. But now it just feels like no matter what I do, he's getting worse and there's nothing I can do to stop it."

Sam reached out instinctively, closing his hand around Henry's wrist in an attempt to calm him. The empathy he felt for Henry was near overwhelming, as he'd been suffering the same emotions on and off for a year with Dean. Watching his brother flounder, helpless to do anything about it, feeling like sometimes he was just sitting there watching his brother die.

"If we're lucky, we'll get the ghost of Sherlock to move on, and John can finally get on with his life."

Henry gave a nod but sighed and didn't pull away from Sam's hand. "Yes. I suppose my fear is that he just has nothing left to move on to."

The following morning, Sam was up early and to his surprise, so was Dean. They were a little sluggish from the time difference, but after a cup of coffee and a bite to eat, they made their way to the street just in front of St. Bart's hospital where it was reported that Sherlock Holmes plunged to his death.

Sam stood back, staring up at the roof, at the ambulance entrance on the side. There were people walking back and forth, all over. A bus came and went, and cars zoomed by. "Plenty of witnesses," Sam said as Dean carefully walked around the area with the EMF reader. It was still silent, and the boys made sure to double check the maintenance of it to make sure it was in working order. It was.

"Well, we're not really questioning if this dude died, right?" Dean asked as he shook his head and tucked the device into his coat pocket.

"No," Sam said slowly. "It's just… this feels different, you know? Like nothing's really adding up. Sure the evidence is all there with the sightings and people dying. Plus, last night I swore I saw something at the cemetery, but nothing's adding up to this being supernatural. I just…" he trailed off and shrugged. "I don't know, Dean. Something just seems off."

"I feel ya, man," Dean said quietly. "But it is what it is. We haven't really gotten any surefire evidence that we're up against a ghost. We might just have to burn the bones, tell this Watson guy that the ghost has moved on and hope that he gets his shit together before he does something really stupid."

Sam nodded, but he wasn't sold on that idea. "I'd like to dig around a little more. That Henry kid came by last night and he seemed really worried about the doctor. I don't want to just pull a half-assed job and then walk away hoping for the best. I think I'm going to see if I can get Henry alone and try and get more information out of him. I mean, maybe we're not dealing with a ghost. This John guy doesn't really seem to be the type, but maybe someone else was freaked out by his death enough to reanimate him?"

"Ground around the grave seemed fine," Dean said with a frown, but Sam could tell his brother's interest was piqued. If it was a zombie situation, the EMF would be quiet, and if the body was somewhere else other than the gravesite, the ground would be fine. "I guess it's worth a shot, though. Maybe while you're schmoozing his roomie, I can try and pull the good doctor back from the edge of the cliff."

Sam nodded, and found Dean's suggestion different, but it made sense. He knew his brother, knew how he worked. He knew that if Dean could save someone else, that the sacrifice might feel worth it. If someone else could back away from the edge and move on from losing someone they loved that much, as much as Dean had loved Castiel, maybe he could get over it, too. In time.

They headed back to Baker Street and instead of showing up unannounced, Sam called Henry and asked him out. Henry seemed hesitant, but agreed and eventually, Dean was let inside to talk to John, and Sam took Henry out to lunch.

"Hope you don't mind me staying while the boys go out for some grub," Dean said, wandering around the too-clean flat, glancing at all the things in their place, just so, and taking note of the dust surrounding them. John liked things neat, but he didn't dust. Not anymore.

"It's… odd, but fine. I assume you didn't turn anything up last night," John said from his spot on the chair.

"Not a damn thing," Dean said. He wanted to do something, anything, to help the doctor, but he didn't know what. It was tough, trying to save a man from his grief while he was drowning in his own. He wasn't fine, everyone knew it. Sammy knew it, and even with all of his talk that he was here, present, alive, he didn't feel like it. He didn't really feel anything, aside from moments of overwhelming despair. In those moments, when he tried to fathom eternity without ever seeing Cas again, and those were the moments when he was close to ending it all.

"Would you like some tea?"

Dean turned and smiled at John. "Nah, but you got any more of those cake things? Those were amazing. We don't have stuff like that in the states."

John returned from the kitchen with a plate of cakes, and when he saw Dean sitting in the seat the Winchester had helped himself to, he flinched. The flinch was not lost on the other man, and Dean immediately leapt to his feet as though the chair had caught fire.

"I'm sorry, man," Dean said, holding up a hand.

John blushed bright red and shook his head. "No… no don't be. It's fine, I just…"

Dean sat on the sofa instead. "Hey man, I get it. That was his seat. No worries, okay?"

John's eyes went watery and red, and he looked up at the ceiling with a sigh. "You'd think after all this time it wouldn't hurt to see someone else in that chair, you know? And for a while I was fine. I was just fine. But now… I just…" he trailed off, shaking his head. "I'm not a weak man, Mr. Winchester. I'm really not. I don't need the love of another person to sustain me from day to day. But what happened, how it happened, it was just so… so wrong. There was so much more he could have done. So much more he should have done, and his death was so…"

"Meaningless," Dean said absently. When John looked at him, a bit startled, Dean gave a bitter laugh. "Been there. I'm there right now, in fact. Year ago today, which Sam doesn't find nearly as ironic or coincidental as I do." He shook his head, knowing he was probably using the word ironic wrong, but he didn't really care that much. "Either way, it's not getting any better. Some days it's a little easier to get out of bed, take a shower, put one foot in front of the other. Some days… aren't. And those moments, those moments when you start thinking of something you should do, something that they could have done with you, something that would have mattered, and you know they're never going to be there for any of those moments again…" Dean's voice broke and he cleared his throat. "It's tough, is all I'm saying."

A small tear leaked from John's eye, but it was the most emotion he was really showing right then. "And when they tell you to live, you just want to hurt them, as badly as you're hurting, then ask them to tell you again life is worth continuing."

Dean shook his head and sat back, crossing his arms over his chest. "Look, I know we don't know each other, and once Sammy and I finish this case, I'll probably never see you again. But I gotta know that there is something more than this unending emptiness. It can't just be this, otherwise, what's the point. What was the point of everything we did to stop those bastards…" Dean stopped, realizing that he was giving away information that wasn't necessary or that John would actually accept. "My point is, I did a lot of good. He and I did a lot of good together, and I have to know that it gets better."

"Mine was an unusual sort," John said after a moment. "Didn't believe in an afterlife, so it's a bit ironic that he might be a… what did you call it earlier?"

"Vengeful spirit," Dean said as he reached for a cake. He took a bite and smiled. They really were an amazing little treat and he made a note to take some home. If killing zombies on the xbox didn't give him a reason to live, these cakes might.

"Yes, vengeful spirit. The vengeful part I could see," John said with a slight laugh. "He didn't take kindly to those who betrayed him."

Dean gave a little nod. "I hear that. Mine was a little more than awkward. His name was Cas, by the way. He… never quite got what it was like to you know, be part of normal society. Fumbled around, never goddamn understood any pop culture reference. Tried to figure out twitter once, that was hilarious. But he was a good guy. Always trying to do the right thing."

"Aren't we all, Mr. Winchester?"

And the truth was, yeah, they were. That was why they were there. That was why Dean, despite the fact that he still wasn't sure he wanted to live himself, wanted to save John from the end of a bullet. It was why they were going to burn Sherlock's bones and try and make sure that whatever of him was left had moved on. So John Watson could. They were just trying to do the right thing.

"So this Molly Hooper," Sam said over a bite of his sandwich. "You say she was madly in love with Sherlock?"

Henry nodded, staring at Sam with wide eyes behind his thin-rimmed glasses. "Madly. Like the British sort of mad, meaning insane."

Sam took a deep breath in thought. "So do you think she'd ever dabble in dark magic? Attempt to… I don't know… say raise the dead?"

Henry choked on his drink a little, wiping his mouth quickly with his napkin, clearly embarrassed. "Raise the dead? Like… like a vampire or something?"

"More like a zombie," Sam said, trying to ease the poor, nervous kid into the information. "It's not like in the movies, either. I know it sounds insane, but zombie rituals do exist. Usually the person comes back a sort of… shade… of their former selves. They can be commanded by the person who raised them, but they're hard to control."

"You've seen things like this before?" Henry asked, his voice squeaking a little.

"Unfortunately," Sam said. "Like I told you before, hunting ghosts and what not, that's my job. Me and my brother's. We've seen things I couldn't begin to explain to you, and honestly, if it's not a ghost, my guess is he's been brought back by someone for some purpose."

Henry licked his lips nervously and gave a small shrug. "I suppose if anyone was hysterical over Sherlock enough to try something like… like that, it would be Molly. But… but I just don't see her as the black magic type. She's very… sciency, not so much into spiritual stuff."

"Do you guys see her much?"

Henry shook his head. "When I first moved in, she'd pop by a few times. Even flirted a bit with me, but backed off the moment I told her I didn't swing her way. Very polite, bit timid. John was the one who explained her never-ending crush on Sherlock, and honestly it was in her eyes. Something shifty, you know, like she's not all there, not telling you the whole story. I grew up around people like that. Mr. Winchester, and believe me, there's something off about her."

"Please call me Sam," he said with a small smile. There was something about this kid that Sam liked. Something sort of fresh and kind, like he'd take you at your word and simply be okay with it. It was different. Nice.

"Right yes. Sam. Sorry," Henry stuttered.

Sam sighed a little, and then asked, "Is there any way you could take me to meet this Molly Hooper?"

They showed up first at St. Bart's morgue, but when she wasn't there, Henry led the way to her modest flat just a few blocks away. They pounded on the door for several moments before she answered, and Sam was a bit surprised to see what she looked like.

She was a bit frail looking, pale, her voice mousy, but he saw what Henry meant about the eyes. She looked nervous, and that was the first warning bell that rang in Sam's head. She let them in, of course, as Sam noticed that the Londoners were all much more polite than the strangers he met in the US on cases, and she even offered them tea which they both refused.

"Listen, we're here to discuss the matter of Dr. Watson," Sam said. He had no intention of actually giving her real information, and hoped his sharp glance at Henry conveyed that. "My brother, who's with him now, and I have been called in at the behest of Mr. Knight here. He's on an unofficial suicide watch, and we understand that you know Dr. Watson fairly well?"

Molly looked genuinely alarmed by this news, her hand flying up to her mouth, and she shook her head. "He hasn't tried anything, has he?"

"No, no, not at all. That's why we're here. We're hoping to prevent an incident."

Molly shifted in her seat, glanced over at a door down the end of a hall, and then said, "I'm not sure what sort of help I can give you, Mr… Winchester, was it?"

He nodded. "Sam."

"I'm afraid I was a close colleague with Sherlock… I'm sure you've heard of him?" When Sam nodded, she continued, "And I've been by to check on Dr. Watson a few times, but nothing more social than that. What… what can I do?" Sam noticed her glance at the door again.

"You know what, I think I will take that tea," he said with a soft smile. "Henry? Tea?"

"I um… s-sure," Henry said with a frown.

"Mind pop into the er…" he struggled with the word they used, "loo?"

"Just down there, first door," Molly said, and though she seemed a bit flustered, she got up and went through the door to her kitchen.

"Keep her distracted. I think I've found something," Sam said to Henry, who looked petrified, but Sam didn't have time to coach him. With steps as silent as he could make them, he crept down the hall and went to the door Molly had been staring at. He turned the knob, and to his surprise, it opened.

From first glance, it looked like a regular room. Just a simple bed, dresser, and a few boxes in the corner. As he peered into the closet, though, something caught his eye. It was a box and poking out of the top was what looked like a microscope and behind it, a bunch of glass phials. Didn't Henry mention something about things going missing? Lab equipment and stuff like that, Sam thought.

Still, Molly worked in a lab, so it wasn't completely unreasonable to assume they were hers. Sam turned and that was when he saw it. Hanging behind the door was a long, black coat. Wool, and on top of that a purple scarf. Sherlock had been wearing that exact thing in the photograph John had shown the Winchesters.

Then Sam noticed that the bed was rumpled, like it had been recently slept in. Underneath it, a pair of men's black shoes. On the dresser a glass of water, half-drunk. Sam walked out and closed the door. Molly was up to something, Sam was sure of it.

He was back, seated beside Henry before Molly returned. He smiled at her, his most charming smile and she instantly blushed. "I brought out a few tins," she said, indicating the small boxes of loose leaf teas. Sam chose the jasmine and put the infuser into his cup.

"So Molly, you live alone?"

Henry jolted at the impolite question, but Molly didn't seem bothered. "Ah yes, just me. My mum used to live with me but she and her sister moved south, London was getting a bit cold for her."

Sam nodded and smiled again. "Must get lonely."

"I work a lot," she said and now started to look uncomfortable.

"Ah," he said and nodded. He could see in the opposite direction a door open to Molly's modestly sized bedroom. A large bed with flowered sheets and covered in stuffed animals. "You collect?" he nodded toward the room.

Molly blushed and said, "Oh it's just… it's nothing."

Sam reached out and touched her hand, smiling at her. "Don't be embarrassed. I think it's sweet."

They continued small talk, Molly falling instantly for Sam's charms, and he got her phone number. She promised to call him if she noticed anything off about John, and then walked them to the door.

A silence fell between Sam and Henry as they hit the streets, and it was only after they turned the corner did Henry ask, "Were you honestly chatting her up?"

Sam frowned. "Was I what?"

"Flirting," he clarified. "Getting her number and all that?"

Henry looked completely put out and Sam gave a small laugh, shaking his head. "No, not exactly. She kept looking over at a door, and when she was in the kitchen, I went in and saw a few things that tipped me off. I think Molly might be dabbling into some dark magic, and I think she's the reason our friend John has been seeing his dead lover all over the city."

They met Dean back at the hotel. Dean walked in the room, frowning that Henry was still with Sam, but didn't really draw attention to it. He threw his coat on the back of a chair and sighed. "So you dig anything up?"

"I think so," Sam said. "Henry pointed me in the direction of a woman, Molly Hooper, who I guess had spent her entire life in love with Sherlock. She apparently took all sorts of verbal abuse from him over the years, still maintaining this sick crush on him. My guess is, when he kicked the bucket, she decided to bring him back and get revenge."

"Like a love-slave? Like that one chick… the professor's daughter?" Dean asked as he grabbed a beer. He cracked it and took a long drink.

"Angela, and yeah," Sam said with a nod. "She said she lives alone but she has a room that had that coat Sherlock was wearing in his picture, and the purple scarf. The room was obviously being used. But… it was empty."

"So you think he got away like the last chick?"

Sam nodded and glanced over at Henry who was following the conversation with wide eyes. "Yeah. I think so."

"Well we'd better be sure on this one, Sam. Zombies are no laughing matter, and I don't really feel like going on a wild goose chase, if you know what I mean. You notice any of the typical signs? Dead plants, occult books, anything like that?"

Sam shook his head and sat down on the bed near Henry. "No. I didn't notice any plants in her house at all, and I didn't get enough time to snoop around to see if she kept anything for a resurrection ritual."

"She… she had an orchid. In her front window. I-it wasn't dead though. It was blooming," Henry cut in timidly.

Dean turned to him sharply, making the kid jump a little. "It was completely alive?"

Henry gave a nervous nod. "Yeah. It had a pretty long bloom on it, nothing unusual."

Dean rubbed his face tiredly and flopped down on the second bed. "You realize we're getting a bunch of conflicting information on this case, and we've gotten a big fat nowhere so far. This was supposed to be a salt'n'burn Sammy, not a possible-ghost-possible-zombie-possible-I don't know what the hell this is case."

"I know," Sam said, feeling frustrated himself. "Look, tonight we'll head back to the cemetery and dig up the body. No body, we've got a zombie and we tail Molly until this Sherlock guy pops up. If there's a body, we burn the bones, hang out for a few days, and when we're sure the ghost is gone, we'll call it a win and go home. Fair?"

Dean shrugged. There wasn't much he could do to argue with that. It was simple logic, simple protocol. Digging up a body in the middle of the night in a foreign grave yard wasn't something either brother was looking forward to, but they'd done it before with Crowley.

"You're… you're going to dig up a grave?" Henry asked, breaking the silence between the brothers. "Jesus Christ."

Dean smirked and Sam smiled softly as he reached over to pat Henry's hand. "Typical day for a Winchester, trust me. We're just lucky no one's died yet."

It was completely freezing when they got to the cemetery later that night. They hadn't expected it, and hadn't dressed for it, and they were both cursing and complaining by the time they reached Sherlock's headstone.

Henry, who had flirted with the idea of following the boys to the cemetery, decided to stay back and keep an eye on John instead. Sam didn't blame him. Walking into the Winchester's world wasn't easy, and Henry was timid enough already.

"So this Henry kid," Dean said as he dug his first shovelful of soil, "you like him, or what?"

Sam smiled and gave a shrug. "I don't know. He's kind of cute, don't you think?"

"Ah Sammy, you know I don't swing that way. If it's got a dick, it had better have wings, you know what I mean?" Dean replied.

Sam rolled his eyes, knowing the humor was a defense mechanism, but at least Dean was acting like himself for the moment. "Well I think he's cute. Pretty pointless to pursue anything with him considering we're going to be heading home in a few days, though."

"How long has it been since you got laid?" Dean asked.

Sam clenched his jaw and didn't answer until they were a few feet down. "Considering everything I sleep with ends up dead, I sort of stopped trying to get laid."

"Well with Hell all closed off, I think you might be safe to give it a try," Dean said with a wink. "Make sure everything still works."

Sam didn't respond. They dug and dug until finally, what felt like hours later, they hit something. It was hard, a newer coffin so it didn't fall apart under the weight of their shovels. Sam stood back as Dean hit the seal and they heard it give way with a hiss.

Sam had the salt ready, Dean had the stake, and after a second, the lid popped open. Neither Winchester was surprised to see nothing was there. Nothing at all. The coffin had never contained a body, and the only stain on the white satin was the few clumps of dirt that fell in from the end of Dean's shovel.

"So… zombie," Dean said with a resigned sigh.

"Looks like it," Sam replied. "It would make sense. She works in the morgue, she'd have access to the body the entire time."

They hauled themselves out of the grave and both looked at the pile of dirt that would need to be replaced. "I need a drink," Dean groaned.

"I need a new job," Sam replied.

They began to fill the hole again, but as they did, Sam saw something out of the corner of his eye that made him stop. It was a strange movement through the trees. He turned and stared, and then he caught it. A flash of pale face and dark clothes and he knew it had to be Sherlock.

"Dean," he hissed, and pointed.

The figure began to run then, but as tired as both brothers were, they were still very fast. They'd had enough of this case, the both of them, and it only took a minute for them to catch up with the man. Dean grabbed his arm, tossing him to the ground, and he fumbled for the stake.

The moment he was delayed, a long leg shot up, kicking Dean in the elbow, and the stake went flying. "Mother fucker!" Dean cursed.

Sam dove for the piece of wood, shouting, "Silver will slow it down!"

The zombie had Dean by his shirt front, and Dean fumbled for his silver knife. He slashed at the creature, but where he expected a sizzle and a cry, the creature just kept walking him backwards until he was pressed up against a tree.

"Why, in the name of all that is holy, are you digging up my grave?"

Dean glanced over at Sam with wide eyes. Whatever this thing was, this man, he wasn't dead. At all. He was very alive, very bleeding from the knife wound, and from the look in his eyes, he was very, very pissed off.


	3. Chapter 3

"Uh… a little help here, Sammy?" Dean croaked as a forearm was currently obstructing most of the airflow through his windpipe. The man standing in front of him, about as tall as Sam with fiercely blue eyes that were shining even in the dark of the cemetery, was breathing heavily through his nose. His arm was pressed just enough to make Dean very uncomfortable, but not quite enough for the hunter to pass out. Yet.

Sam, who was totally thrown by everything, scrambled for their bag and pulled out the salt rifle. He cocked it, aiming it at Sherlock's back. "Let go of my brother," he warned. He wasn't entirely sure what they were dealing with. Human or monster, obviously not ghost, but likely not zombie since the silver had no effect.

Sherlock flicked his gaze behind him, glancing once at the gun, and then once at Sam's face. He twitched a smile before he turned back to Dean who was very red in the face. "That gun won't kill me, it's filled with salt, not actual bullets. It will hurt, but what's pain when I have enough time to break at least forty bones in your brother's body before you could fire a second round?"

Sam's finger on the trigger hesitated. "Listen man, we don't want any trouble, okay?"

"Ah is this the part where you bargain for his safety now?" Sherlock asked.

At this point, Dean was scared. Not because he was afraid Sherlock was actually going to hurt him, but because he was displaying mannerisms of a thing that should have been locked safely behind the sulfur-coated gates of hell. Dean caught Sam's eye and then muttered, "Christo."

Sherlock blinked in confusion, his blue eyes staying still the same fierce blue, and he cocked his head to the side slightly. "Sorry? What?"

Dean rolled his eyes and struggled against Sherlock's arm a little, which by the further pressure on his throat, was a mistake. "Look we were going to burn your bones, okay," Dean gasped, deciding the truth was better than being half-choked to death against the tree.

After an impossibly long second, Sherlock's arm dropped and he took a step back as Dean slumped to the ground, pressing his hand to the tender skin on his neck. "Jesus Christ," he gasped as he gulped full breaths into his lungs.

Sam, with the gun still raised, took a tentative step forward. "What are you?"

"I'd ask the same thing of you," Sherlock said, sizing up both men. He stared at Sam hard for a moment and then said, "Thirty-one, scholar but not of traditional means. Skilled with weapons since childhood, bitter, lonely and gay. You're American, and not just by your accents, those can be easily faked. You're not here for long, and you have an extremely disturbing attachment to your older brother." Sherlock's eyes flickered to Dean and then something flashed in them, akin to pity, perhaps, or even familiarity. "I'd do you, but it's not necessary. You're already punishing yourself enough. What I don't know is who you're working for. I've been very careful about my trail and it did not lead me down the path to two Americans who felt that digging my grave and burning my bones was a necessary thing."

"We're hunters," Sam said, utterly convinced that Sherlock was alive, human, and that this whole plan had been a bust. He lowered the gun and pushed his hair out of his eyes.

"Hunters," Sherlock said, as though testing the word. "What sort?"

"Demon, mostly," Sam said. He finally brushed past Sherlock's tall form and helped Dean to his feet. "Though we thought we were after a ghost. Your ghost. Or… possibly zombie."

Both brothers expected Sherlock to roll his eyes, maybe laugh at them, or issue some other scathing remark, but he didn't do any of those things. Instead he looked curious and said, "I believe we need to talk then."

Sam was still a bit shaken from the verbal undressing Sherlock had given his entire being. It was obvious that this man didn't know an actual thing about them or who they were, but his keen ability to notice things with a three second glance was unnerving.

"We're going to need to fill that," Dean said, having regained his full composure. He nodded to the open grave which was half-full and Sam gave a groan, but agreed.

Sherlock patiently waited off to the side, watching the boys with an expressionless face, hands behind his back. He looked perfectly human as Sam watched him standing there, and yet there was something else about him. Something different. He got it, then, why a man like John Watson would fall for him so hard.

"You think he's human?" Dean asked as they shoveled the last bits of dirt on top of the plot.

Sam glanced over and gave a shrug. "He's not a monster, at least, none we've ever hunted."

"So he faked his death?"

"Looks like. I mean, that doctor said he identified the body twice, so however he did it, he's got some skill. Or connections."

The Winchesters' eyes met and they were both thinking the same thing. Molly Hooper.

That suspicion was confirmed when Sherlock directed them down the street and to the little flat Sam had been in earlier that day with Henry. No one spoke a word as they walked in, taking note of the incredible silence hanging in the air. Sam noticed Molly's door was shut, which likely meant she was home, but asleep, and he wondered where, exactly, this little meeting was going.

"In here," Sherlock said, and took them to the room Sam had investigated earlier. "And yes, I'm perfectly aware you were in here. That was the moment I deemed it necessary to follow you. I knew you weren't a threat to John, but I was concerned the moment you and Henry Knight showed up here."

The door shut and Dean leaned against the dresser while Sam stayed by the door, arms crossed. "So what is this about, exactly?" he asked the detective.

"Did John call you in to investigate my appearances?" Sherlock asked.

"No," Sam said. "That's not typically how we work. I happened to notice a lot of coincidences which pointed us in the direction of vengeful spirit."

Sherlock's eyebrow quirked up as he shed his coat and sat on the bed. "Vengeful spirit."

"Typical of a murder or suicide victim," Dean answered, his voice flat and rough. "Someone's life ends too short, they duck a reaper and decide to hang around, taking revenge on the people who wronged them."

Sherlock gave a nod and said, "Ah. I see where you made the connection."

"So… what are we doing here, exactly?" Sam finally asked. "I'm a little surprised that you even believe us, to be honest. Your friend Dr. Watson seemed absolutely convinced we were full of shit, and you don't really seem like the ghost type."

Sherlock looked between the brothers before he answered. "I'm not. Not… typically. However in my hiatus I've run across something concerning. Something that shouldn't rightfully exist, and after thorough investigation and exhausting all other possibilities, I've come to the conclusion that it has to be something… not of this world. Demon, I believe, is what you called it earlier in the cemetery."

The Winchesters exchanged concerned looks before Dean shook his head. "Sorry man, but that's impossible. And I mean literally impossible. There aren't any more demons in the world."

Sherlock rose and crossed his arms, pacing a little in front of the small bed. "Humor me for a moment, will you?" He looked at them for agreement before he went on. "I've done some investigating, come across several encrypted but easily bypassed websites from those you call hunters. They're known by other names, but their MO is all the same. Tracking and destroying all beings of supernatural origin. It seems rubbish, if you ask me, but my dilemma is this. A man, who should be dead, who took a bullet to the brain, has been reanimated. Not, as you say, in a manner of a zombie, but rather something has… possessed him."

"Have you seen this man recently?" Dean asked. "I mean, besides the fact that he's alive, have you noticed any other odd behavior?"

"Twice now, he's slit the throats of total strangers, gathered their blood into a golden chalice, and spoke to it. It was… bizarre to say the least, despite the man being a raging psychopath. The other thing that tipped me off, which was something I could not explain away by any method of science, was at certain, specific moments, his eyes turn red. And I don't mean bloodshot—"

"As in the entire eyeball going completely and totally red," Sam finished. "Yeah we've seen it before."

"When was the last time you saw this man?" Dean asked. There was an audible tremor in his voice now.

"Two weeks ago," Sherlock said. "He's cut himself off completely from his crime organization. You have to understand, me faking my death was a necessity in order to protect those I care about, John especially. But that's no longer the point. I took care of that months ago, but I'm being stalked by this man, and he wants something from me. I'm not entirely sure what, but I've been able to successfully evade him… for now."

"Okay hold up," Dean said, putting his hands out in front of him. "You're telling me that you're being stalked by a demon?" He turned to Sam, his eyebrows high up against his hairline. "A crossroads demon, Sam? Seriously? That's not even possible. Literally not possible."

"How so, if you profess to be hunters of such things?" Sherlock cut in. He came to stand in front of Dean, sizing him up. "Do explain, if you'd be so kind."

Dean took in a shaking breath and glanced over at Sam who gave a helpless shrug. Sam couldn't argue with Dean's assessment of the situation, but what Sherlock described could be nothing other than a crossroads demon. "We shut the gates of hell," Dean finally said. "Permanently."

"Is anything truly permanent?" Sherlock asked, his mouth quirking a little.

"It is when you used the tablets written by the voice of god," Dean declared, moving away from Sherlock slightly. "This isn't a joke, do you get that? We went through some serious shit to make sure those little black and red and yellow eyed fuckers couldn't get out. There is no possible way that there is a crossroads demon still out and about." He ran his hand back through his hair and then turned to Sam. "What would be the point, anyway? The only reason they ever needed deals was to collect souls. That's all sort of pointless now, isn't it?"

"God Dean I don't know," Sam breathed. "I mean, who's to say there isn't some sort of… sort of crack in the walls, you know. We've seen stranger things. Hell, we stopped the goddamn biblical apocalypse for Christ's sake. That was supposed to be set in stone, too, if you recall."

Dean shook his head, his eyes narrow and fists clenched. "No. No goddamn way. I refuse to believe it."

"Why?" Sam asked, totally confused by this reaction. "Why refuse to believe it. You know we've seen stranger things. You and I have gone to hell and back multiple times. And yeah, we shut the gates with the words of Metatron, you know. I mean, that dude was a total nut-case so who's to say there isn't some way to you know… crack the seal, at least a little."

Dean's face was bright red when he turned full on to his brother and leveled a finger at him. "If there can be a crack in the gates of hell wide enough to let a crossroad's demon through, then there can be a crack wide enough to let out Cas. So… where is he?"

Sherlock was watching the exchange, his eyes a bit wide and his face blank. "So it was not just some lover," he muttered.

Dean turned to Sherlock and hit him. Hard. His fist connected with the side of Sherlock's jaw and it startled Sherlock and Sam. Sam braced himself for the inevitable return fire, but instead, Sherlock took a step back and looked Dean up and down.

"Still a bit sore, I take it?"

Dean had nearly lost it. He reached out, grabbing Sherlock by the front of his shirt and he backed him up against the wall. There was no question, if Sherlock wanted to take Dean down, he could have, but he didn't make a move against the elder Winchester.

"Listen to me, you son of a bitch. You are alive. You're here and you're alive, and you're letting that man suffer. You're torturing him by showing yourself. You're driving him to the point where he's not going to come back and you don't seem to care. I don't know if this is some sort of game with you, but I've had it. I've had it with this fake ghost hunt, and with this bullshit case. I've had it with the idea that you could have put that man out of his misery but for some goddamn reason, you haven't. Do you know what I would give to have just thirty more seconds with Cas? Do you?" He gave Sherlock a hard shake. "Just long enough to finish my fucking sentence, to tell him that I loved him, always had, and that I didn't give a shit about Heaven or Hell or any of those bastards. But I can't. I don't care if there is some demon running around in a meat-suit trying to take you out. If you want us to even considering helping you on this case, you'd better go to that house and ease his suffering. I shit you not. Or believe me, friend, a demon is going to be the very least of your problems."

Sam was still surprised that they got to the hotel in one piece. He was surprised that Sherlock didn't retaliate, or even attempt to defend himself against Dean. Sam had seen what the detective had been capable of at the cemetery and he wasn't sure if it was Dean's raw pain, or if it was being called out that silenced Sherlock. He just couldn't be sure. All he knew was that they would be in contact with him in the morning, and they were allowed to walk out of the apartment unharmed.

"Look, Dean," Sam said when he saw his brother crack open a fresh bottle of whiskey, "I think it's a good idea if you take it easy on the hard stuff tonight?."

"You know what, Sammy, why don't you go fuck yourself, okay?" Dean snapped as he took a pull right from the bottle. "There is so much right now I can't even begin to comprehend, and the last thing I want to do is sit there in this shitty hotel room thinking about all the ways Cas could be here right now, and he's not."

"We don't even know if we're dealing with an actual demon," Sam said gently, ignoring the insult. "Before we jump to any conclusions that we're actually dealing with a demon, we might want to try and find him."

Dean shook his head and drank another large, long gulp. "No. You know what, I don't want to know. I don't want to know if he is or isn't. The only thing keeping me together through this was the idea that this was solid, permanent, irreversible. The only thing keeping me from actually blowing my brains out was knowing that Cas was gone and there was no way I could get him back." He flopped down on the bed and put his hands over his face. "Fuck, Sammy, what if he can come back. What if he could just pop back, but he won't."

"I don't think that's the case, Dean, I really don't," Sam said gently, but his brother wasn't hearing him. His brother was drinking and drinking, and eventually the bottle was gone. He puked, cleaned up, and eventually passed out across the bed, leaving Sam sitting there next to him feeling helpless and, in all honesty, a little bit scared.

It was nearly 2 in the morning when the timid knock sounded through the hotel room. Sam was finally at his laptop, searching the news for any suspicious deaths, demon calling cards. He jolted, but went to the door, peering out the window and half-expecting to see Sherlock.

It was Henry, and Sam let him in right away. "So… so he's back. He um… he showed up about ten minutes ago. John tried to get me to stay but um… but it was too private."

Sam quickly ushered the very flustered, very uncomfortable young man inside and offered him a drink. "I should have called you at least, given you a head's up. It's just been a really, really long night." He glanced back at Dean who was snoring open mouthed, completely blacked out.

Henry followed Sam's gaze and gave a short nod. "I see."

Henry and Sam sat down at the small hotel table with their beers, Sam kicking his leg up on Henry's chair, too tired to care about propriety. "Dean was in love with an angel named Castiel."

"An angel? Like an actual angel?"

Sam nodded as he took a long swallow of his drink. "You should probably know angel's aren't those fluffy protectors of mankind and all that shit. Angels are huge, huge assholes. There's really not a lot of redeeming qualities about them. They're like demons, but twice as self-righteous, and ten times more powerful. There was a war…" he trailed off and shook his head. "It's a really long story. There are books actually but… that's beside the point," he waved his hand dismissively. "Castiel was different though. He was… he wasn't a great guy, I mean, not like the Archangels who just all be fried if you want my honest opinion, but Dean… Dean loved him."

"Did he die?"

Sam licked is lips and sighed, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling wondering briefly if Cas could hear them. If there really was a crack in the seal maybe… maybe he could. "No. See, after the angels and demons tried to fry the world, Dean and I put a stop to it. We went through these trials," Sam stopped, shuddering at the memory of everything he'd done, everything he went through. "When we finished, Castiel, Dean and I… Heaven and Hell were sealed. Or were supposed to be, forever. I think Dean expected Cas to fall or… I don't know what. Not go, I guess, but when he struck the final blow and transported all heavenly bodies back into heaven to be sealed for eternity, that included him. A year ago. Tonight."

Henry bit his lip, flooded with sympathy for the entire situation, though it was clear he hadn't experienced anything like that. He was fairly young, a few years Sam's junior at least. He had something about him though, like he'd seen the monsters of the world, even if they weren't of the supernatural variety. Sam liked him. A lot. He felt in that moment at least Henry could understand, even if he didn't get it.

"Do you think John's going to be okay?" Henry finally asked. "Do you think this is going to matter? Make a difference that Sherlock's back?"

Sam shrugged. "Hard to say. I wish I could say yes, but I'm not sure. Part of me wonders if Dean got Cas back, maybe he'd get worse, actually take that final leap and just end it. Part of me needs to believe that Dean doesn't need Cas to decide whether or not to live or die. Maybe he feels like he lost his purpose in life now that we're pretty much done with our work. No demons, no hunters. Eventually the monsters will die out and there's no need for us anymore."

They drank a little more, and talked a little more. Henry told Sam the story of how he met John and Sherlock. He told him about how lonely he still felt, and how different from the world. Most people didn't witness a violent murder the way Henry had. Most people didn't suffer for years afterwards, experimented on, kept slightly insane to cover up what had happened.

Sam got it. Sam had been there. Like Henry, Sam's life had been controlled, manipulated and his choices taken away. From the moment he was a child, he was pushed in a direction, his reality distorted, changed and shifted. He never really had a chance, and now where did he fit in?

Maybe that was why he was so terrified that Dean might actually give up. Dean was the only one Sam connected to. Dean was his touchstone.

He wasn't sure what landed them in the bed, but it was hours and a lot of alcohol later. There was pressing hands, tugging at clothes, lips and teeth. Henry was good, too, despite being inexperienced. He knew where to touch Sam, right there, and Sam forgot Dean was passed out in the room when he cried out, "Oh god!" but when he did remember, he didn't care because it had been so long since he'd let someone touch him. For a moment the fear was gone, the fear that it was a curse, that it was his fault everyone he'd been with had died.

They fell asleep in the bed, limbs tangled, Henry's glasses lost somewhere in the covers as their fingers twinned, the top of Henry's head tucked into the crook of Sam's neck. He smelled good, sweet, reminding him just briefly, just a fleeting moment of Gabriel and he spent a moment missing that snarky, winged bastard before he let himself fall asleep. The sun was up by the time he went unconscious but he felt sated and comfortable and for the first time, safe.

Dean had suffered worse hang-overs in his time, but not many. His head was thumping and with one eye he surveyed the scene in the next bed. He knew he should be annoyed, disgusted even, that his brother had gotten it on with that British kid while he was passed out three feet away. But it didn't really matter. Dean had been dead to the world, lost in his dreams of Cas's hands and wings and rough voice just washing all over him.

He felt a bit sick to his stomach, but nothing a greasy breakfast and hot cup of coffee wouldn't cure. He passed by the whiskey bottle and thought, 'hair of the dog?' Ultimately he decided food was a better option and wandered for several blocks before he found a restaurant that offered a proper breakfast.

It was a little hole-in-the-wall and the waitress didn't even ask for his order when she took a look at him. Instead she brought him a thick, sweet bowl of porridge, a plate of bacon and a stack of toast. The coffee was hot and bitter, and exactly what he needed.

"Need anything else, love?" she asked with a wink. On any other day, in any other place, Dean probably would have winked back and gotten her number to have a quick, foreign fling before fleeing back to his batcave, but now he just couldn't bring himself to do it. He was just too damn broken.

He shoveled down the sticky breakfast, wondering why they didn't make food like this in the States. Even the coffee was richer, a meal in itself almost, and he had scarfed it down within minutes. He rose to pay the bill, and as he did, he looked up just in time to see the familiar, black curls of Sherlock Holmes walk through the door.

"Mind if we have a word?" he asked in his impossibly smooth baritone.

Dean dropped a wad of cash on the table and gave the detective a shrug. "Sure. What's up?"

"I'd ask where your brother is, but by the state of you, I'd say he got drunk, had a dirty, quick fling with Henry and is currently sleeping it off," Sherlock said with a sneer.

"Right you are, and I'm happy for the kid, okay? Sammy's been through enough shit so you can keep your judgments to yourself," Dean all-but snapped.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow but didn't much as he led the way onto the street. He strolled down the sidewalk, a slow pace with his hands behind his back, and looked at Dean for a long time. "You're upset about the idea that a demon might still exist. I'd assume the thing you lost was a demon, but I believe it's something else."

Dean hesitated, pulling a classic Sammy bitchface. He didn't really want to spill his guts to this arrogant jackass, but the truth was, there might actually be a case here and he didn't want to leave England without attempting to solve it. "He was an angel," Dean eventually said.

"And from your uncomfortable rant last night, is it safe to assume when Heaven and Hell have been sealed off from the world with it were the demons and angels?"

Dean nodded. He shoved his hands into his pockets and looked up at the grey sky. "That's pretty much the whole of it. Happened a year ago, too, so the idea that your little buddy is walking around with a demon inside of him is difficult for us to believe."

"But not impossible?"

Dean gave a bitter laugh and shook his head. "Buddy, in my line of work, you quickly learn nothing is impossible."

"Same for mine," Sherlock said slowly.

"What we really need is to find a way to smoke this bastard out," Dean finally said after they rounded the corner, heading toward Sherlock's flat. "Get him to show himself. After that, we have a fairly large host of ways to get rid of a demon. Although…" Dean trailed off, shaking his head. "… if Hell is sealed, I have to wonder what would happen if we exorcise the bitch. We're probably going to have to kill him."

"Can they be killed?" Sherlock asked, sounding actually curious.

"Yeah. It's not easy, but it's pretty standard. Demon knife, Angel knife. Angel itself. I'm sure there's another way. If we can figure out who the demon is and find his bones, we can burn them. That generally kills all manner of monsters."

"Is that why you were digging my grave?"

Dean laughed and scratched the back of his head. "Yeah. Sorry about that, though you being alive and all, I guess it doesn't really matter."

Sherlock gave a slow nod and came to a stop in front of his door. "So far his appearances have been random. If you know of a way we might be able to summon one, he may show. Especially if he's the only one."

Dean gave a nod. "Yeah. If he's actually a crossroads demon there is most definitely a way." He fell quiet and looked up at the Baker's street window. "Your friend okay?"

"He's been worse," Sherlock said in a clipped tone. "He's adjusting."

"Bruised?"

Sherlock quirked a smile and absently touched his ribs. "Bit, but then again, I've been worse, too. I'll be in touch, Mr. Winchester. Do let Henry know he's not being displaced and may return whenever he's comfortable. Good day."

With that, Dean was alone on the street and it was starting to rain. He began to walk, his face slightly turned up, staring at a break in the clouds. He shook his head and sighed. "Can you hear me up there, you son of a bitch? Did you hear me when I told you how I felt? Do you give a shit that you have my undying love and always will? Do you give a shit that you're the only person I'd ever really say it out loud for. You bastard. If there's a way to get down, god damn it, you'd better figure it out, because if I end up in Heaven when I die, I'm going to fucking kill you."

By the time Dean got back to the room, Henry was gone and Sam was in the shower. He came out, a little shame-faced and quiet, but smiled with appreciation as his older brother tossed him a small paper sack with some pastries inside.

"Thanks man, I feel like shit," Sam mumbled through a mouthful of sticky sweet.

"I figured. Looks like you were up drinking a lot longer than I was," Dean said, eyeing the nearly empty bottle of whiskey and the depleted beer collection. "Had a good time?"

Sam smiled, completely embarrassed, and pushed his hair back. "Ah… well yeah."

"He any good?"

"Do you really want to know?" Sam asked with wide eyes.

Dean smirked a little and flopped down into a chair. "Nah not really. Just… you know what… I'm happy you got some action. It's been way too long. He wake up alive or did you get rid of the body?"

"He said he had a few things to take care of. He's going to call later."

"Uh huh," Dean said, staring at Sam pointedly.

"What?" Sam defended.

"You're not even the least bit worried he's going to kick the bucket? Even with a possible demon running around?"

"So possible demon now?" Sam asked a little meanly, on edge because he actually was a little worried about Henry's safety. Considering nearly everyone he'd ever slept with was dead, he had reason to be concerned.

Dean huffed, but didn't take it personally. "Yeah, man. I guess it seems pretty pointless and petty to refuse to accept that there might be a crack somewhere in those walls. Hell, some of those bitches were really smart, Sammy, and it wouldn't surprise me if they did find a way to break one son of a bitch out."

Sam gave a heavy sigh and rubbed his hands down his face. "So where do we start?"

Dean put his hands behind his back and looked up at the ceiling as he spoke. "Well I ran into that Sherlock dude this morning. Let me tell you Sammy, that is one weird dude."

Sam huffed a laugh. "Yeah, I noticed."

"And ran into is a strong term. I think he somehow managed to find me, even though I didn't even know where the hell I was going. Anyway, he seems pretty convinced we've got a demon here, and I don't have a lot to go on in the way of proof it isn't a demon. You know?"

"Yeah," Sam said with a nod. "Red eyes, blood calls. I mean, I don't think I've ever seen anything else we've ever hunted do anything like that. So what did Sherlock suggest?"

"Well he said there's no real pattern in the way this demon shows up," Dean said with a shrug. He toed off his boots and kicked his socked feet up on the table. "He thinks we should use some sort of ritual to summon it."

"Like at the crossroads?" Sam offered.

"That's what I was thinking. I figure English countryside's bound to have enough of them. Only real concern is knowing which one we're dealing with."

"And why," Sam said. "If this demon is out, if he's the only one who got out, he's either very clever, very strong, or very up to something."

Dean leaned forward, his hands draping on the insides of his thighs and he met his brother's gaze. "Not to mention, what the hell does he want with Sherlock. I can understand some sort of hero/villain thing going on with the human psychopath, but what would a demon want with a guy like Sherlock?"

"Vessel, maybe?" Sam asked. "I'm pretty hesitant to assume that before this Moriarty guy died he was a demon. I mean, maybe he was, but considering no one noticed anything supernatural about the situation, and considering he used words alone to send Sherlock to his death…"

"I don't know man. Words alone sounds pretty demony to me. Most humans are not that smart."

"So you think there might be something supernatural about this Sherlock guy?" Sam asked with a deep frown.

Dean shrugged. "Could be. I mean we did the whole Christo bit, so doubt he's a demon, but we might want to put him through the paces just to be sure."

Sam gave a nod. "He's not going to like it, but I'm not sure we have a choice."

"Thanks," Sam called, waving to the couple as they pulled away from the cub. He slung the fully-loaded bag over his shoulder and was exceedingly grateful that the pair of hunters didn't question them too much. Of course, considering their history with the hunter community, most didn't.

"Alright so what've we got?" Dean asked as he eyed the bag.

"Pretty much everything we need to summon the crossroads demon, plus several types of blood, an angel knife—which god knows where they got it but I'm not complaining—holy oil, and several runes which might help in case we do uncover anything weird about Sherlock."

Dean gave a nod and then looked up to the window at 221B Baker Street. "So we just what? Barge in and start spraying him with holy water?"

Sam shrugged. "Look, he wants to figure this out as much as we do. It's possible we can just ask him to go through the paces and he'll agree."

"I don't think our doctor friend's going to be too happy about that," Dean warned.

"Well, he might not have a choice." With that, Sam knocked on the door and both brothers weren't entirely surprised to be welcomed inside.

Upstairs, John sat in a chair, looking exhausted and confused, and stared up at the brothers as they set down their bag and approached him and Sherlock. "We're really sorry to drop by at a time like this."

"No apologies necessary," Sherlock said, which earned him a sharp look from John.

"I'm just confused why you're still here," the doctor said. "I'm grateful for you two flushing him out but… isn't this it?"

Sam frowned at Sherlock. "No," he said slowly. "This isn't it. You didn't tell him?"

"I figured you were perfectly aware of John's rather… reluctance to accept things of a supernatural nature," Sherlock said with a shrug. "I felt it would be better if we continued forward without any resistance."

John rose from his chair, instantly angry. "What the hell is going on?" His voice was sharp and raw. "You just… you just turn up here, alive, after some Americans show up claiming you're a bloody ghost. Now you're saying there's more you're keeping secret. I… I've barely had time to process the fact that you're not dead, and now you expect me to just sit back while you do god knows what with these two…" he turned and frowned at Dean. "Who are you exactly? Who are you really?"

"We were completely up front with you, Dr. Watson," Dean said. "I can't even begin to express my distaste for what your little friend here did to you." He served Sherlock an icy glare, which the other man accepted placidly. "Believe me, I'm not thrilled to continue to work with him, or disrupt your life any further. Unfortunately, the evidence he's given us suggest that something we thought we took care of a year ago might have had a few flaws. Dangerous ones."

"What he's saying," Sam said, taking over because he knew that skeptical or not, John could handle it, "is that he's being stalked by a potential demon. The man you've known as Moriarty may or may not be still roaming the streets. What we need to find out is if he's possessed, and if so, by what. And the last question is why. Why is he possessed, but more importantly, what does it have to do with Sherlock?"

John's clenched fists were trembling, but he deflated almost instantly. He turned to Sherlock, his head shaking back and forth. "Why keep me in the dark? Why?"

"I didn't…" but it was all Sherlock got out before John stormed out of the room. He gave a sigh and shrugged. "He'll come around."

Dean looked furious, but this was no time to be settling a squabble between these men. Their relationship could be repaired, or broken, once the boys figured out what the hell was going on with this demon, and with Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock was seated on his chair looking thoroughly put out and a bit sore. He'd gone through every test the boys could think of. Salt, holy water, silver, iron, a standard exorcism, an advanced exorcism, and had strolled in and out of a demon trap. There was, at the moment, no evidence to support that Sherlock was nothing more than your average, run of the mill, human genius.

Sam had let Dean take the leg work while he sat on the sofa going through Sherlock's history. While they couldn't find anything physical about the man that was off the mark, his history told another story.

Sherlock was a strange child from the word go. Absentee father, over-protective mother, with an older brother who resented him deeply. Sherlock showed signs of genius at an early age, but it wasn't until he was in his teens that things spiraled out of control. He became a drug addict, and was found repeatedly in rather compromising situations. What Sam found interesting was that in his teens was when his abilities really started to develop.

"So your previous claim that what the press wrote about you, that you made it all up, that was just a cover so you could take care of this criminal circuit?" Sam asked, flipping through some of the newspaper clippings.

Sherlock, who was nursing the silver wound on his wrist, gave Sam an irritated glare. "I've recounted that enough times, I believe. What has that got to do with anything? And why would you possibly assume I'm anything other than an extraordinary human being?"

"This is standard, okay?" Dean said, a little grouchy because Sherlock had taken out his discomfort on Dean a few times during the tests. "Demons don't just pick random people, buddy. And as smart as you are, in the world of the supernatural, you're just a meat-sack to those fuckers. We want to find out why he's so interested in you."

Sherlock glowered at him further but didn't say another word. Sam kept reading on, feeling something at the back of his mind tickling at him. Something… familiar. Sherlock showed an amazing strength, and extremely persuasive skills in all of his cases. The fact alone that he took down an entire syndicate of the world's most dangerous criminals single-handedly months ago was something to be aware of.

"Mind if I make coffee?" Sherlock said. "Or are you going to ask me to salt it?"

Dean rolled his eyes but Sam waved him off. "Go ahead."

When he was gone, Dean flopped down on the couch next to his brother and heaved a sigh. "Man, we got nothing and you know it. This is just some random dude, okay?"

"Not necessarily," Sam said. As he read, the information was flowing and Sam was grabbing on to his idea. "You don't find all of that stuff about him odd? Coming into incredible strength and intelligence when he was a teen? I mean, he took you down like you were a preschooler, Dean, and you've been up against some seriously strong monsters. That's not normal strength. The way he just sort of knows things. Observes, he says, but it's not… it's not normal."

"Yeah," Dean said with a shrug, rubbing his sore arm, "but I'm not sure what you're getting at."

"I think he might be nephilim," Sam finally said.

Dean sat back, shooting his brother a disbelieving look. "You're kidding, right?"

"It all adds up," Sam said. "I mean, the little bit of lore we have all makes sense. Unexplained strength and intelligence blossoming in their teens. And if a demon is after him, that could be why."

"Dude, no way," Dean hissed. "I mean look at the guy. Besides, that one chick Cas ganked, she knew what she was."

"So?" Sam asked. "Think about all the powers I had, and it took months of research and digging to get some sort of clue as to what the hell was different about me. And remember, I had to be aware of my powers before they started to grow. Before that they sort of… were in flux."

"Didn't Metatron say the one Cas killed was the last of her kind, though?"

Sam shrugged and gave a derisive snort. "Yeah but Metatron also lied. A lot. Worse than any of the other Angels. It's very possible that he didn't let us know there was another nephilim out there for a reason."

"What reason would that be?" came a silky voice from behind them. "And what, pray tell, is a nephilim?"

Dean coughed a laugh and Sam rose, backing up slowly. "You really don't know?" he asked, glancing at Dean cautiously.

Sherlock's eyes were narrow and dangerous as he came around the sofa and stepped in front of Sam. "No. I really don't know. Enlighten me."

Sam licked his lips nervously and cleared his throat. "The nephilim are creatures, hybrids, born from angel fathers and human mothers. They're… powerful and most of the time, very dangerous."

"And you think I might be one of these?" Sherlock's hands came up and ran through his hair. "Wouldn't I have known?"

"Not necessarily," Sam said in a hurry. When he realized Sherlock wasn't a threat to them, at least in that moment, he hurried over to the bag and grabbed the small stoppered bottle of holy oil. "It's very possible that your powers, or most of them anyway, have been dormant all this time."

"So what would the point of that be?" Sherlock asked. "Why create me and then leave me dormant?"

It dawned on Dean before it dawned on Sam, and he jumped up from the couch. "Didn't… didn't Metatron mention some shit like this? He was talking to Cas, saying that there was a way to reverse it, but it wouldn't matter because no one knew." Dean shook his head. "That son of a bitch. I'd reopen heaven to shove a blade right though his fucking chin."

Sam was breathing heavily, overwhelmed by the possible discovery, and he turned to Sherlock. "If there's a demon after you, it might be because you have the power to reopen the gates of heaven and hell."

Sherlock frowned and then barked out a laugh. When the Winchesters continued to stare at him with a straight face, he shook his head and said, "Oh I'm sorry, I thought you were joking. I don't even have a proper response for something so ridiculous."

Sam stepped forward and Sherlock took an immediate defensive position. "It's a simple test, okay? I'm going to make a ring of oil with this, and then light it on fire."

"Are you mad? I'm willing to go through these tests but you're not going to burn our flat down," he snapped.

"It's holy oil, the only thing it's going to burn is itself. Swear," Sam vowed. He began to pour the oil around the detective and then, once the circle was done, he took Dean's lighter and flicked it. "If you are nephilim, it's not going to hurt. You'll just be unable to cross the circle."

"And if I am?" Sherlock asked, sounding almost concerned for the first time. "What then? What would be the point?"

"Nephilim are stronger than angels, stronger than demons," Sam said with a shrug. "I think this crossroads demon is trying to draw you out into the open so he can use you to open the gates of hell and let the demons loose again."

Sherlock gave a tense laugh and shook his head. "Oh just light the bloody thing and get this over with."

Sam looked at his brother. Sherlock was obviously worried, and with good reason. It was all starting to click, for everyone in the room, and it was all just making so much sense. Sam bent low and flicked the lighter on. Holding his breath, he lit the flame and they all watched it encircle the tall detective.

"Now what?" Sherlock asked.

"Now just… step over it," Sam said. He took a step back, sliding up next to his brother. There was a slim possibility that nephilim wouldn't be contained by holy oil, but Sam doubted that. He was sure that this would work, that this would prove he was right.

Sherlock's knee twitched and he took a step. Then, he froze. "I… I can't move," he said, and without warning, his head flew back and out of his eyes a bright light erupted.

Both brothers went down, their arms pressed over their faces, and when he looked up again. Sherlock was staring down at them, a blue-glow emitting from his eye sockets. He was humming with power, shaking with it, and there was no longer a single doubt about what he was. He was nephilim, and the crossroads demon was going to try and use his power to break open the gates of heaven.

It wasn't until the sound of glass breaking shattered the silent power of the room. All three of them turned to see John standing there, a broken mug at his feet. He looked at Sherlock, then at Sam and Dean and in a very tired voice he muttered, "Of-bloody-course."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Notes: So okay one more chapter after this I guess. God I suck at WIP fics. I'm sorry updates take so long with me. I just got a job with a publishing company which freaking YAY, but also freaking BUSY. And my kids are home for summer now, so there goes my work day, and okay so we did go to the beach for a few days because hell yes. So I promise this fic will be finished before 2014. Maybe even before the end of June. I really want to write an Angel!Dean, Priest!Cas fic or something. Eff. Okay. Enjoy the chapter.

Chapter

The pub was crowded, full of middle-aged men in suits who were clearly just off work, drinking a pint, eating and watching the match on the flat-screen TV hanging just above the burning fireplace. Dean's eyes scanned the crowd and saw the hunched doctor at the end of the bar, sucking down his beer with fierce abandon.

Dean felt for the guy, he really did. There was only so much a person could take before he just snapped, and it looked like John Watson was reaching that point. Dean slid onto the stool and ignored John's heavy groan.

"Whiskey, up," Dean said, holding up a finger to the bartender. He didn't look at John until he'd taken down half the liquor, and even then, he couldn't meet the doctor's eyes. "Listen man, I know you're freaking out…"

"Freaking out?" John asked with a slightly hysterical laugh. "Freaking out? I'm sorry, Mr. Winchester, but 'freaking out' doesn't begin to cover it," he said, using one hand to make air-quotes. "One moment I'm ten steps away from blowing my brains out over my dead… whatever he is, and the next he's back and not only that, but he's some sort of thing? Some sort of supernatural angel human thing? I'm not… I'm not…" John trailed off, muffling his words with his pint glass.

Dean felt his heart ache for the man. He'd grown up in this life, surrounded by it since he was nearly a toddler, so he just wasn't surprised by anything anymore. He'd defied death more times than he rightfully should have. He'd been in hell, on his happy way to becoming a damn demon before Cas pulled him out. He didn't really get where John was coming from, but he definitely felt sorry for the guy.

"Okay deep breath there, buddy," Dean said as John gulped down his beer. He squeezed John's shoulder and kept his hand there, even when John tried to shrug him off. "This ain't the end of the world, okay? It's fucked up, I mean, I get that. I do. Just because I live this shit day to day doesn't mean I don't get how completely fucked up it is. But it's not going to really change anything."

John sputtered a little and looked at Dean with wide eyes. "Not going to change anything? Do you honestly think I could look at Sherlock again, ever again, and see the man I once knew?"

"Could you do that before? After he came back?" Dean challenged. "You think that you'd be able to look at him the same no matter what?"

John said nothing. The bartender refilled his glass and he sighed, closing both hands around the beer. "I can't do this," he whispered eventually.

Dean rolled his eyes and turned to John, feeling irritated and just two hundred percent done with his emo bullshit. "I think that is the biggest load of shit I've ever heard. Can't do what, exactly? Accept the fact the person you thought you'd lost for good has returned? He's not even different, I hope you realize. He's exactly the same, you just happen to know a little more than you did before." Dean took John's shoulder and forced the doctor to look at him. "I didn't come down here to baby you, or tell you it's going to be alright. We've got a big, scary ass monster after him, one that shouldn't even exist in the world right now. There's a damn good chance he could die, for real, and believe me, when creatures like him die, they don't come back." Dean's throat tightened and he shook his head. "So you have two choices. You can suck it up, get yourself together and help us take care of this problem, or you can keep sitting here, get drunk, and walk away. Either way, it's the same to me. I just figured you'd be a bit more of a man about it and appreciate that you've got something back that some of us would give literally everything for."

With that, Dean got up, slapped a twenty pound note on the bar top and left. He didn't hear the footsteps following him out, but he wasn't surprised when John picked up pace next to him as the rounded the corner, heading back to Baker Street.

"Is he always going to be hunted down like this?" John asked in the quiet of the London evening.

Dean gave a little sigh and shrugged. "Probably. Hell, even after we closed the gates those bastards are sneaking out. Trust me man, my life isn't easy, but I don't regret a single second of it."

The smell was so faint that a normal person wouldn't have caught it, but Dean, trained to notice these things, did. It was the pungent, rotted smell of sulfur and it was nearby. Dean felt the hair on his arms raise and he held out a hand to stop John.

"What is it?" John asked, immediately dropping his voice.

"We're being followed," Dean said.

"Very good, Winchester," came a nasal, drawling voice from behind them.

Dean's hand instantly went into his jacket pocket for the Angel blade, and the Demon's eyes flashed from blue to all red for just a moment. Dean took in the vessel, short, thin, dressed a lot like Crowley did in a suit and shining shoes. His hair was neat, face pinched, and even when he smiled with a human mouth, Dean could see the monster's jaws behind the disguise.

"How did you get out?" Dean growled, taking one menacing step toward the Demon.

"Moriarty," John whispered quietly, startling Dean.

The demon looked over at John and cocked his head to the side. "Mmm no I'm afraid not at the moment, though trust me, he's not far. He's been very helpful though, figured out the art of sharsies really early, this one."

"If you think for a second I'll hesitate in stabbing your bitch ass—"

The demon threw his head back and laughed. "Oh very nice, very classy, you hunters. I'm here to offer you a deal."

"Kiss my ass," Dean snapped.

"Is that a real offer? You know I wouldn't say no to that. Rumor has it Castiel—"

But that was all the demon could get out before Dean lunged at him, pressing him to the wall with the Angel blade against his throat. "What were you saying?"

"If you kill me, you'll never figure out how I got out," the demon said in a sing-song voice. "And I know you're dying to figure that one out, aren't you? To see if you can get your precious feathered friend out of heaven?"

Dean faltered just long enough for the demon to lay one right across his jaw, sending him flying back. Dean still had the knife, and it was clear the demon knew what Dean actually was capable of, because he didn't make another move.

"Like I said, I want to make a deal."

Dean spat blood and glanced up at John who looked absolutely terrified. He wiped the red from the corner of his mouth and rose, keeping a tight grip on the blade. "We don't deal with demons."

"Oh that's not strictly true, Dean-o. We've changed your mind a few times, haven't we?" The drawling voice seemed to slither out of the vessel, caressing Dean, taunting him with information that Dean had just said he'd give anything for. "We don't want a lot, you know. We don't want the gates open. Believe me, the lot of them are far better off in the pit. We just want to let out… a few. Just a few, that's it, and we swear we'll let you be."

"Why do you need me?"

The demon's mouth quirked up. "Oh we don't need you. You've done enough. But we need you to just… step back. Just for a day."

"You want Sherlock," John said, speaking loudly.

The demon grinned. "We want the nephilim, yes. What do you say, Dean? One pesky nephilim, who you know will only cause you pain in the future. Just one little half-breed and you can have your angel back."

Dean's gut twisted, because he knew that the demon was telling the truth. The demon could give him Castiel back, and really, what was Sherlock to him? John seemed to realize it, too, realize he was no match if the Winchesters decided to bow out, because he looked absolutely terrified.

"Have a nice night," Dean finally said. He grabbed John's arm and dragged him up the street until they reached the door to the flat. They went in and Dean immediately used the angel blade to slice open his palm.

"What the hell are you doing?" John asked.

"Protecting your sorry asses," Dean snapped. He used his blood to draw the sigils on the door, and one on the window. Upstairs, he reopened the wound and did the same to the windows while John grabbed some bandages.

"Why didn't you do it?" John asked. They were in the kitchen, out of earshot from Sam and Sherlock who were talking quietly on the sofa. "Why didn't you give him up?"

"Would you have done it?" Dean asked with a shrug. He glanced over at Sherlock and then up at the ceiling. "If there's a way to break Cas out, we can do it without that son of a bitch. I don't make deals with demons. Anymore."

"I'm afraid to ask," John said as he finished the bandage.

"You should be," Dean said darkly and then walked into the main room. "Well we met your friend out there, and wow."

Sherlock looked up at Dean sharply. "What did he say?"

"Well he wants you," Dean said, flopping into a chair. "He tried to bargain Castiel's release."

Now Sam looked alarmed and stood up. "What do you mean his release?"

"How to bust him out," Dean said with a shrug. "If he's even alive up there. He seemed to think he was, but you never really know. Either way, I told him to fuck off."

"Did he say what he wanted?" Sam pressed.

"To let out a particular set of demons, I guess," Dean said. "Said they want to keep hell locked, but want to let some out. Obviously that's a stupid idea but…"

"We need to know how he got out," Sherlock said. "Your brother's told me everything about the current situation. As much as I'm still … adjusting… to this current development, the more important issue at hand is to figure out how he was able to leave hell and find me here."

Dean and Sam exchanged looks and then Dean said, "Well we can summon him, though he'll probably be expecting that and trapping him won't be so easy."

"If we were home it would be," Sam said. "Everything in the dungeon still works it's just…"

"Dungeon?" John asked with wide eyes.

"Long story," Dean said with a wave of his hand.

"If it's easier to trap him where you live, we'll go there," Sherlock said with a wave of his hand.

"Little easier said than done," Dean said with a frown. "I mean, you're all dead and stuff, might complicate things a little, trying to get you on a plane."

Sherlock smirked as he pulled out his phone and said, "Not when your brother is the British government."

Despite the shock of it all, Sam and Dean adjusted to the flight back abroad on the private jet arranged by Mycroft Holmes. John seemed fairly perturbed that Myrcroft apparently knew about Sherlock's feigned death, as did Lestrade, and it seemed everyone except for John himself. It was clearly an issue for another day, however, and he didn't say much as the four of them sat in the plane, trying to work out their plan. Henry was left, by request, behind, which seemed to bother Sam a little, but it was no time to worry about matters of the heart, or well… pants, anyway.

"We have plenty to trap a demon of his rank," Sam said, going through their dungeon check-list. "Luckily we didn't get rid of everything after we closed up hell."

"The only thing we don't have is any information on how to go forward, even with a nephilim," Dean replied, nodding at Sherlock. "I mean, yeah all powerful Wizard of Oz or whatever, but he doesn't even understand his own powers, and it's not like this has happened before."

Sam sat back, running his hands down his face and he groaned. "Well, then we need to make sure the demon talks."

Dean gave a little shudder, knowing what that meant, and despite everything he'd been through, he still couldn't shake the sick feeling he got every time he was put in the position to fall back on torture. Ten years wasn't a lot compared to what most of the souls-turned-demon had done, but it was enough.

"Yeah… yeah okay." Dean got up and went to the small bar to pour himself a drink. He could hear Sam and Sherlock get back to planning, which was fine by him. He had his job, his mission. The soldier, the grunt, the dirty work, and he hated it, but he knew what he was good for.

"You look a bit ill," came the quite voice of John.

Dean gave a small laugh and tipped his glass up to the doctor. "Oh I'm fine, this just isn't my… favorite part of the job."

"Catching demons?"

Dean glanced out the window, hoping to see stars or ocean or anything, but it was cloudy. He sighed and sat down in the chair away from the plotting scholars. "A few years ago," Dean said, not sure why he was unloading on the good doctor like this, "Sammy was in trouble." He paused and took a drink. "He was dead, actually. This son of a bitch yellow-eyed bastard set Sammy up and this… this psycho kid stabbed him. I freaked, you know, because he wasn't supposed to die like that. I summoned a crossroads demon, sort of like the one we've got on our tail now. I was… I was young and stupid. Made a deal, Sammy was back and the demon gave me a year."

"A year to what?" John asked, leaning forward.

Dean smiled a little sardonically and tipped his glass to John. "Year to live, my friend. One year, and we tried to get out of the damn deal but…"

John's eyebrows rose as he said, "You died?"

"Torn apart by hellhounds. Boy that was real fun, though not as fun waking up on the rack in fucking hell, let me tell you."

John swallowed thickly as he sat back and looked at Dean. There was no humor, no sarcasm or mirth in his face or tone. "My god," he whispered.

Dean shook his head and swallowed. "Four months here was forty years down there. I lasted thirty before I took the bastard up on his offer to get off the rack and dish out a little pain myself. In the end it was Cas who came for me." Dean struggled out of his shirt a little to show John the handprint that would forever mar his pale skin. "Gripped me tight and raised me from perdition," he said, and when John quirked a brow Dean said, "his words. That's how I met him. Castiel."

"The… the Angel," John said.

Dean nodded. "Of course Angels aren't those halo-wearing sons of bitches that fly around all fucking fluffy. They're sadistic sons of bitches. Hell learned it from somewhere, you know."

"Jesus," John said, putting his hand to his mouth.

"Either way, I'm the most qualified man here to get information out of a demon. Not my favorite thing, but if it puts an end to this nonsense, I'll do what I gotta do."

"There could be another way, right?"

"Probably not. Like I said, this ain't my first rodeo." Dean finished his drink and was tempted to grab another, but the plane dipped for a moment and his stomach warned him to back off a bit. He settled deeper into the chair and glanced out the window again.

"Were you tempted?" John finally asked after a long pause.

"Tempted?"

"To take the deal?" John nodded over to Sherlock who was still deep in conversation with Sam.

Dean smiled a little and shrugged. "I'd be a hell-worthy liar if I said no, but believe me, I don't make deals with demons. Even if they can't drag me to hell again, whatever they have in mind is a damn bad idea. They're not bringing demons out of hell to give them a vacation. They always have a plan."

The landing was bumpy, but there was a car waiting for them at the end of the runway and before long, Sam, Dean, John and Sherlock were pulling up to their compound. Sherlock seemed immensely curious, and not even a little unimpressed, with the set-up. He immediately began devouring books, papers, and anything he could get his hands on.

Dean, meanwhile, got himself settled in, grabbed a beer, plopped on the couch and took a breath of the familiar air. It was painful in a way, reminding him too much of Cas, but the pain felt almost good. It felt like he was alive, he was part of something, and despite missing Castiel so much he could barely take it, he didn't want to die. Not right then, anyway.

"I don't admit this very often, but I am impressed and, if I might add, a bit jealous," Sherlock declared as he walked into the main room. He clapped his hands in front of him and hopped a little onto his toes. "Where do we begin?"

Dean turned around with his front to the sofa cushions, arm hanging low over the edge. "Well you two nerds got a plan?"

Sam bitch-faced Dean and rolled his eyes. "Being that you'd rather drink yourself into actual stupidity than use your brain, we had to compensate. We've decided to summon the demon, but we need to make it look like we're going to give Sherlock up."

At that, John turned sharply and narrowed his eyes. "Sorry?"

"Relax," Sherlock said impatiently, waving his hand. "I'm obviously not interested in sacrificing myself. However, it does make sense that we need bait, and seeing as I'm the only thing this demon creature is interested in, we're going to use me. Apparently these hunters have plenty of tricks of the trade to get the demon chatty once we can secure him, so that's the more difficult part."

"We'd also like to follow up on a possible lead first," Sam said, looking at Dean with a knowing glint in his eye.

It took Dean a moment, but when he got it, he started to shake his head. "No. No, no that's… no. Last time… Damn it, Sam, I can't deal with his shit."

Sam shrugged. "You have another option?"

"He shouldn't even be alive, Sammy. He's a fucking mess and I just…"

"He's the only one who might know what this demon is up to, Dean," Sam said. And really, Dean had no argument. Before long, they were piled into the Impala, Dean ignoring Sherlock's pointed glare as he clearly couldn't stand Baby. Not that Dean gave a crap, because Baby was Baby and it was the only place Dean ever felt truly at home.

He roared down the highway and finally came to a stop into a very familiar, very unwelcome hospital. Even with their tricks, the boys found it difficult to get Sherlock and John admitted, and the British pair waited out in the hall while Sam and Dean went to the room to visit the very broken, very insane, former King of Hell.

"Moose and Squirrel," Crowley crowed as they walked into the room. He looked the same, hair a bit longer, face clean shaven, thinner and older. His eyes darted all over the place, seeing things he couldn't explain. They hadn't realized curing him was going to leave such a mark, and even Sam admitted had they known, they probably would have killed him and put the man out of his misery.

"Crowley," Dean said gruffly.

"What've you brought me today? What's out in the hall there?" Crowley sang.

"Sit," Sam said as he grabbed Crowley's arm before the former demon could peek into the hall. He sat him on the bed and took the chair opposite him. "How are you?"

"Oh you know, wracked with guilt, nightmare of hell and monsters, terrified of my own death, which I see on everyone's face, in case you were wondering. So just dandy, thanks for asking," Crowley said, sounding a bit like himself.

Sam licked his lips and looked over at Dean who gave an irritated shrug. He hadn't wanted to be there in the first place. "We need information."

"Oh you only visit when you want informaaaation," Crowley said, dragging out the A sound on the last word. "You never want to come over and play."

"That's because you're about as sane as a bag of freaking cats, Crowley," Dean snapped from his chair.

"Don't," Sam warned his brother. "A demon's snuck out of hell."

At that, Crowley's face fell and he looked truly scared. "They're coming for me."

"Doubtful," Dean said. "What would they want with you now?"

"Revenge?" Crowley said. "God… no… help!"

Sam grabbed Crowley's arm and settled him down. "They're after something else. We need to figure out how it got out."

Crowley shook his head. "Only… only one. Only one could get out but… but no. Why it wouldn't make sense. What does it want?"

Sam looked over at the door and said, "Nephilim."

"No," Crowley said, sounding near hysterics. "No you can't you have to kill it. Kill the Nephilim!"

"Why?" Sam asked, still holding Crowley's arms.

Crowley took a deep breath and blinked rapidly. "The only thing that could escape hell now would be… Nephalem. The offspring of an Angel and Demon. If they get their hands on the Nephilim, they'll bring it all down. Heaven, Hell, Earth. Everything. D-don't…"

Sam shushed Crowley and eased him back into his bed. "How do we kill a Nephalem?"

"You realize he's probably talking out his ass, right?" Dean snapped. "Nephalem? Really?"

"Demon knife, Angel blade, it's all the same," Crowley said. "If they've woken him, it's over. It's all over."

"Nephalem. It sounds like a load of crap to me," Dean said as the raced down the road.

"He has no real reason to lie to us, Dean," Sam retorted. "He's not a demon anymore, and even if he wanted to be, he's cured. He'd have to go through the same process he went through before."

"Torturing souls in hell," Sherlock said, making John jump a little. "It was explained on the plane, had you been listening."

John glanced sharply at Dean who avoided the piercing stare. "Fine, but if they do exist, why haven't we heard of them before?"

"Maybe for the same reasons we'd never heard of Nephilim. There just aren't a lot of them," Sam said. "Maybe there's only one."

Dean shook his head. "No. No I met this demon, okay, Sam. It was a crossroads demon, not a damn Nepha-thingie. I would have noticed the difference."

"We didn't notice a difference in Sherlock," Sam defended.

"The hell we didn't, we knew something was off about this dude," Dean said, not caring that Sherlock was in the car.

"I don't entirely see the point to this argument," Sherlock cut in. "You received your information, and the plan hasn't shifted. We still use me as bait for barter, once we capture this demon, we interrogate it for the rest of the information. What is the problem, exactly?"

"The problem is you—" Dean began, but Sam cut him off.

"The problem is, if we're not dealing with a crossroads demon, if we're dealing with something similar to your own… power…" Sam hesitated, "the traditional items we have to bind and hold a demon likely won't work. And if he's as powerful as you, we're definitely going to have a fight on our hands."

They got back to the compound and Dean was determined to see the plan through. He doubted Crowley and doubted his own intuition that the demon they'd met was, in fact, a Nephalem, despite not being able to explain away how the crossroads demon got out of hell.

With Sherlock on his side, at least, Dean didn't feel alone, and though Sam seemed fairly wary of the plan, he was ready to go along with it. John Watson was the only one who seemed particularly nervous, but he didn't say much as they all settled in for the evening.

"Is this him?" John asked late that night after Sherlock and Sam had both retired to research for the bulk of the night. The plan had been postponed until the following day, just to allow the scholars to make sure they'd left no stone unturned. Dean and John were happily exiled from the library, and were now in the living room with the TV on low.

Dean glanced over and saw the only lasting picture of Castiel he had. It was something Sam had taken on his phone, sort of absent-mindedly, but after Cas had gone, Dean printed it out and stuck it on the side table.

"Uh, yeah. Yeah that's Cas."

John nodded. "You look happy."

Dean snorted and shook his head. "Happy's a pretty strong word, man. Cas was… difficult, to say the least, on his better days. But he was…"

"Yours," John said, and Dean nodded, because really that was the only way to explain it. "Do you think you can get him back?"

Dean gave a bitter laugh and said, "No. I'm not stupid enough to even begin to hope for something like that. Truth is, he might not even be alive up there, and even if we could put a crack on the door, getting him out…"

"But what if… what if the demon thing could make good on his promise?" John asked. "What if he could get him out?"

Dean sighed and rubbed his hand down his face. "I just can't let myself think about that, okay? I don't mean to sound like a dick, but I'm not about to torture myself with this. Trust me man, I'm ten steps away from just blowing my brains out in a futile hope that I'll go to heaven and see the bastard when I die. But I'm not going to let myself think of the what-ifs, that what if I can have him now, here, with me. I just… I can't."

John fell silent, but regarded Dean with a strange look, one Dean couldn't read. But he didn't worry about the doctor, he couldn't. He just didn't have the capacity to do that right now because there was a lot at stake and after everything they'd gone through to shut down hell, he was really just anxious to seal up the cracks.

The sun was beating down on the back of his neck and Dean felt himself briefly wishing they were back in England. The weather was nicer, the people just didn't bother him with shit, and no one knew him there. The crossroads had no shade, the road dusty and old, and obviously not used for over a year. There were old holes, old places where the boxes had been buried from hapless humans, but they were shallow and worn now.

"Do you really think it was a good idea leaving those two clowns back at the compound?" Dean asked as he glanced around at the empty fields around them. "I mean, what if this demon smells bullshit and goes after them?"

"If you're right and it's just a crossroads demon, he's not going to mess with a nephilim," Sam said with a shrug. "I mean, if he could have taken Sherlock out before now, he would have. He had plenty of chances back in London."

Dean let out a breath and said nothing, mostly because Sam was right, and he didn't believe the demon was anything more than a crossroads. He peered down into the metal box and then up at his brother. "So you really think a summoning will work?"

"Aside from a ritual, which I'm not sure will work either," Sam said with a small sigh, "it's all we've got. Might as well try the one that requires less blood, right?"

Dean gave a short nod. "Well, let's do this shit." He bent down and placed the box in the freshly turned hole and covered it up with dirt. Standing up, he shoved his hands into his pockets and waited.

And they waited. Over an hour, and just as Sam was about to call it a failure, the air shifted and the boys turned to see the demon from the London streets standing there. He was again in a suit, light grey, pressed and fitted, and he grinned at the boys.

"A crossroads summoning, how original," he drawled.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Nephalem?"

"Ooooooh very good, very clever," he all-but hissed. "I see our former king has been feeling chatty."

"He isn't," Sam said, feeling now just as confident as Dean.

"Me?" the demon asked, pressing his palm to his chest. "Flattering, but no. Mmm, I'm afraid, despite his power, the nephalem wasn't able to put a crack in the wall that large. But I suppose you've uncovered our dastardly plan." He wiggled his fingers together in front of his chest, mocking the movie villains.

Sam shifted, reaching for the demon cuffs, and said, "We want to make you a deal."

"Not with those, you're not," the demon said. "I'll come willingly, but believe me, we know all about your little sack of tricks."

"Who are you?" Sam asked, staring at him.

The demon smiled as he strode toward the Impala. "Just call me… and old friend."

They had no way to warn Sherlock or John of their return with the demon in tow, unrestrained, so instead of letting the demon inside, Dean kept him outside while Sam went in to prepare their guests.

There was something familiar about him, too. Something… different, but not entirely more powerful than a crossroads demon. Just off. Dean circled him the entire time, keeping the cuffs and the angel blade at the ready. He peered at Dean through his beady, narrow eyes, grinning the entire time like a Cheshire cat.

"Silent treatment, is it? Not even a few questions?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Are you going to answer any of them?"

"Mmmm likely not," he said with a chuckle. "Still, unlike you, isn't it? No snarky remarks, no… nonsense."

"I just thought my information on how to bring your pretty little dove back from behind those pearly gates might be worth more than the silent treatment."

Dean rolled his eyes over to the Demon and smiled. "I'm not stupid enough to believe you have a way to get him out."

In a flash, surprising Dean, the demon closed the space between them. His face, so close to Dean's that he could feel its breath on his face, smiled gently. "You have no idea what we'd be capable of together. Do you realize that? What you and I each have in our grasp, the power. God's power, you know. They're stronger than the demons, stronger than the angels, and in His absence, we can bring it all tumbling down. We can bring them to their knees. We can bring them back to life."

Dean swallowed as the demon's hands crept up his arms to his shoulders, ghosting over his neck and cupping his face. "You know what we all want." He laughed a little, letting his lips briefly brush along Dean's. "To be loved. To be loved and wanted. Power, and safety. You just want him, and you know it. You want those arms back around you, those pathetic doe eyes staring at you because he doesn't understand a goddamn thing you say to him, but he fucking loves you for it anyway. You know you need to feel him envelop you again, take you, kiss you, those wings and that fierce strength as you grip the headboard and let him inside, deeper than you've ever let… anyone… go…"

Dean's head was swimming and he wasn't sure his legs were going to support him much longer. The demon's hands on his face were burning hot and his insides were twisting painfully because everything this monster was saying was true and god… god it hurt.

Dean finally pulled himself together, pushing the demon away. He heard a shuffling noise off to his right, but he glanced over and didn't see anything. Had he been in his right mind, been more aware, he would have seen the tow-head of John Watson slipping down to the ground, but he wasn't, so he didn't.

"Fuck you," he finally spat. "Fuck you. We're going to kill you."

The demon smiled and held out his wrists. "So be it. Take me down, Dean-o."

Dean flinched at the name. No one called him that except John Winchester, and it caused another nagging in his mind that something about this demon just wasn't… right. But he didn't have time to explore it, not yet, and he cuffed the demon.

Sam's cry of protest was muffled by the distance between him and Dean, and he quieted when Dean held up the demon's wrists to show he was bound. Without a word, without meeting anyone's eyes, Dean led the demon into the dungeon and sat him in the chair. It was too easy, Dean knew that, but he felt safe enough. Even if this thing was Nephalem, which he was still sure it wasn't, he had the Angel blade in his hand.

Sam was quick to follow Dean as he strapped the demon down, and he looked completely suspicious of the situation. "What does he want?" Sam asked.

"Hell if I know," Dean said with a shrug. "He came in here willingly."

"Why?" Sam said, now directing his question to the monster. "What do you want?"

"You know what I want," he replied with a shrug. "I want the nephilim. Or, more precisely, I want his blood. All of it, you see, so he's going to have to die, but I think we can come to a mutual arrangement."

"No deals," Dean said, though his voice sounded weaker. Every time he blinked he saw Castiel behind his eyelids and he felt like his chest was going to explode.

"What's in it for us?" Sam asked, surprising Dean. "And don't feed me your crap about the angel, because we both know that even if you could get to him, you couldn't guarantee it was Castiel you brought down. So what's in it for us?"

The demon cocked his head to the side and looked between the brothers. "You know what the most important thing in the world is, boys? Family. Family. I mean, look at you two. Look at the pair of you, saving the world, shutting down the afterlife to protect each other. It's really amazing to watch. Blood. Right? Isn't that what you always tell each other? Blood family. Never leave family behind."

It seemed to hit the boys at the same time, the knowledge of it, and Dean doubled over while Sam took a step back. They both whispered something along the lines of, "Oh shit, oh god," as the demon in the chair threw his head back and laughed, the sound echoing off the dungeon walls.

"No," Dean said.

"How?" Sam echoed.

"Oh really? Really? You can't deduce even that, you pieces of shit?" he said, his voice growing louder. "You… you left me down there with them. Lucifer and Michael. You didn't think that after Castiel pulled your happy ass out of the cage they'd start taking their shit out on me? You didn't think it wouldn't have a profound effect?!" His voice went deep, growling, his eyes turning red as he struggled against the bonds. "You didn't think I'd eventually come looking for you two assholes?"

The brothers crossed the distance between each other, neither one able to take their eyes on their brother-turned-demon strapped to the chair. "Adam," Sam croaked.

Adam laughed, shaking his head. "Oh don't. Don't try and get sentimental and sorry. You had no problem forgetting I even existed after they pulled you out of the pit. And you can't tell me you didn't know, darling Sammy, considering you were down in there with me for a hundred and eighty years."

Dean's eyes snapped over to Sam. The taller brother's hands were trembling as he found himself unable to take his eyes off of Adam. "What do you want?" Sam asked.

"Your heads, for one," Adam said with a shrug. "But I'm willing to strike a deal. I won't kill you, and you give me the nephilim. You both owe me, you realize. You both really, really owe me."


	5. Chapter 5

His hand was shaking. Hard. The whiskey inside reminded him that scene from Jurassic Park when the T-Rex was heading right for them. His heart was making a similar thudding noise in his chest as he heard Adam's echoed words in his head.

Sam was standing across the room, talking quietly on the phone to someone—Dean didn't know who, nor did he care—and Sam was white as a sheet. Of course, Sam didn't have to live with making the choice to leave Adam in Hell. No, Sam had to live with the memories of Adam's torture in hell, but not the choice to leave him behind the way Dean had.

But what was he supposed to have done, exactly? Sam or Adam, it wasn't really a choice. God. Dean wanted to vomit. He chased the rising bile down with another swallow of the burning liquid and looked to his left where that doctor, John Watson, was regarding him with cool eyes. John had been acting strangely since they'd gotten to the compound, but Dean didn't have time to see what was up with him. Not now, not after they learned who this demon was.

"Fuck," Dean hissed to himself, shaking his head.

"Your emotional distress is worrisome," came the deep baritone of the consulting detective as he watched both brothers deal with this new information in their own way. "It's obvious you have a history with this demon, and were taken by surprise by his revelation, and I would thank you to explain yourselves. My only guess is that he's some sort of family member, given your brother's current phone call. So?"

Dean looked over at the detective, wondering if it was his human side or his angel side that made him such a pain in the ass. He shook his head and finished off his glass, refilling it almost instantly. "It's complicated."

"Obviously," Sherlock said, just a hint of sarcasm in his voice. "Complications are hardly a reason to lose oneself. In fact, they tend to make the situation a lot less dull."

"Dull? You find any of this dull?"

Sherlock gave a shrug and began to pace. "By observing, I'd say this family member is newly dead, though not impossibly so. You'd written him off, tucked him away in the deep recesses of your mind, thinking him a lost cause. Though you've explained to me the creation of demons, I have to assume that it didn't occur to you that this would be a potential outcome of a family member of yours being sent to hell—which I suspect happens a lot. I have to conclude that this person is a sibling based on your emotional distress level. I'd say father or mother, but if memory serves, their whereabouts have already been accounted for. That leaves sibling, half seeing as your mother perished when your brother was an infant. Seeing your emotional state vs your brother's, I'd say you feel responsible while he's merely dealing with a reaction to perhaps seeing him die? Or even perhaps his torture in the, as you so eloquently refer to it, pit."

The bile pressed harder against Dean's throat and he gave a rough cough, tasting the bitter and the alcohol he'd just swallowed down. "Could you just… shut up… for a little bit?"

"As much as I'd love to honor that request, there's still the pressing matter of a demon, one you've left unobserved and therefore likely to escape based on your history, trapped in your dungeon. One we'd set out to torture for information and then destroy."

Dean clenched his jaw as he turned to the detective. "Yeah well, plans changed, okay? And yeah, you're right, it is a family member, one I didn't expect to ever see again. One that I'm directly responsible for becoming a demon because I had to make a goddamn choice that I never signed up to make. And demon or not, I'm not going to put him through anything else to get information from him."

"So what is your plan, exactly?" Sherlock asked.

"Cure him," came Sam's voice as he walked up beside Sherlock.

Sherlock raised a brow and glanced over at the younger Winchester. "Cure him?"

"It's been done before," Sam said with a shrug.

"At great cost, from what I read," Sherlock said, folding his arms over his chest. "From your stories, if it hadn't been for a particular sacrifice on your behalf, it would have taken you. Not to mention half the men who cured demons ended up dead as well. Is that your intention?"

Dean licked his lips nervously, knowing everything Sherlock said was right. Sam had almost died during the trials, and in all honesty, should have. Of course, this wasn't a trail, and a few men of letters had survived demon curing—only to meet death later but that was beside the point. It could be done, and Sam was on to something.

"How else do you propose to get the necessary information out of him?" Sherlock cut into Dean's thoughts.

"Ask him," Sam replied. "As his humanity slowly returns, he will be more willing to reveal information."

"And if he's not?" Dr. Watson cut in, speaking for the first time in quite a while.

"Why wouldn't he?" Dean replied with a frown.

Sam hesitated though, and looked at Dean pensively. "What if he doesn't. I mean, we left him down there, Dean. We swore we'd protect him, and in the end, Michael took him and when I got pulled from the pit, it was only Adam left for Lucifer and Michael to take over. What if, even cured, he won't help us."

"It's that or torture him now, and you bet your ass I'm not taking part in that shit," Dean snapped, turning away from them. When Sam stayed silent, Dean said, "We owe it to him to try, Sammy. It's Adam."

~*~

Dean's arms rested over his thighs, his hands hanging limply between his knees, and his head was bowed. He could hear the agitated breathing of John Watson beside him, and it was irritating. Whatever had crawled up the good doctor's ass was wearing thin on Dean's already threadbare nerves and he was about to jump the pew and start beating him down.

A moment later, however, the confessional door opened and Sam stepped out. He looked shaken slightly, a bit pale but it was probably more nerves than anything else. The last time they'd attempted this, they'd gotten Crowley out of it, which was a mess in itself, and Sam had nearly lost his life.

"All purified and holy?" Dean asked, his voice cutting through the heavy silence of the church.

Sam rolled his eyes and stopped in the foyer to refill his bottle of holy water before they headed out into the overbearing sunlight. "Okay so, we have the consecrated ground, but I'm really nervous. Granted he's a demon, an new demon, but he seems freakishly powerful."

Dean clapped his brother on the shoulder and gave it a little squeeze. "Dude, we cured the King of Hell, okay. We can at least feel somewhat confident in our abilities to take on Adam."

"What if this doesn't work though? What if we just end up killing him without getting a single answer?" Sam's voice was heavy with trepidation and probably a little pain considering this was Adam they were talking about.

"So he dies," Dean said. "He gets cured and dies, he goes to heaven. He doesn't and he dies, he goes to hell, or purgatory. Either way, no worse off than he is now, okay? And for the first time we can say we actually tried." The last sentence felt like razors on his throat, hurting in ways he couldn't describe.

Sam gave a slight nod and then looked back at John who was still watching them with heavy suspicion in his eyes. "What's up with him?"

Dean shrugged. "He won't say. Maybe it's a British thing?"

They walked around the corner, feeling a little nervous having left Sherlock in charge of the Demon, but all was the same as they stepped into the little cemetery shed and found Adam still tied to a chair, a devil's trap both above and below him, the demon chains still around his wrists and neck. The scene was all-too familiar, bringing back memories of the trials and Crowley and everything that had nearly killed Sam, and Dean felt sick all over again.

"The wayward sons," Adam said with a grin, almost looking like the kid they knew inside of that man. "Come to cleanse me with the blood of the lamb?"

"Shut up," Dean snapped, his nerves getting the better of him.

"Ooh shut up, very original," Adam said, and it was clear by the glint in his eye he knew he was getting to Dean. "I guess you don't want story time, do you, Dean-o? No interest in listening to how the moment little Sammy's soul was pulled from the cage, Lucifer and Michael decided to make me their play toy? No interest in listening to how they pulled me apart, piece by piece, then put me back to together? How they feasted on me, drowning in my screams and laughed. No—" but his words cut off as Sam gagged the demon and began to prepare the supplies.

"It's probably better if you leave," Sam said, giving Dean a firm glare. "You can stay nearby, but it's pretty damn obvious you're not going to be able to sit through this."

Dean ground his jaw, prepared to argue with his little brother, but before he could form a response, an impossibly strong hand closed over his arm and dragged him back outside. Dean was only able to shrug Sherlock off once they were twenty feet away from the door. "What the hell? Get off me!"

"If you want your brother to be effective, you cannot compromise the situation. Is that clear?" Sherlock's tone left no room for argument, as much as Dean wanted to. As he looked at the detective, he could see the glowing blue just beyond the human eyes, and he shuddered. "Is it?"

Dean turned and stormed to the car, popping Baby's trunk and pulling his cooler full of beer. He'd leave them alone, to do the dirty work, the work Dean was too damn weak to do, but he'd be near. He'd be at the ready if and when they needed him. If and when Sam was near death and Adam was laughing and winning, because Dean just couldn't foresee a happy ending here. They didn't deserve it. They deserved Adam flaying them alive and bathing in their blood. Dean did, anyway.

"Swimming in your guilt isn't going to help the situation," came the quiet voice of John Watson from Dean's left.

Startled, Dean whipped his head to the side and let out a breath. "Oh what the hell would you know about it? You don't seem like the type who has any control over guilt."

He expected John to get angry, but instead the doctor smiled quietly and helped himself to his own bottle of cold beer. "Mostly I'm not," he said as he situated himself on Baby's trunk next to the hunter. "Mostly, but I've learned a few things along the way. I've learned to trust Sherlock, and even in this short time, I've learned to trust your brother. You obviously don't, and I can't figure that one out."

"Sammy doesn't always think in his right mind," Dean said as he flashed back to Sam more than willing to sacrifice his own life for the trials. Times when Sam thought with his demon blood, or his addiction, or his dick. Times when he let his emotions, his fear or his anguish over Dean control his thoughts. It had been a long time since Sam had been that stupid, but Dean was too cautious to ever forget.

"He seems okay right now," John said quietly.

Dean gave a shrug, taking a pull of his drink and making a soft, 'aaah' sound after he swallowed. "Yeah well, we'll see. He's out of his mind if he thinks I'm going anywhere. I don't care if I do have to sit out here for the next eight hours."

"He's got Sherlock with him," John said, and there was something hidden behind his tone.

Dean looked at John sideways, giving a soft shake of his head. "I'm not putting my faith in a supernatural being who's only just figure out what he is, and has no idea what the hell he's capable of." Dean didn't mention Sherlock's predisposition to being a total sociopath which made Dean increasingly nervous, especially when the life of his brother—or brothers, as it were—were at stake.

"You don't give him enough credit," John said quietly.

Dean turned and looked at John, disbelief washing over his features. "This coming from the man who was lied to, for fucking fun, by this man for three years. This man, who probably wouldn't have bat an eyelash over your death."

"I disagree," John said. "Yes, he lied, but it was not for fun. And it's been years since I've doubted whether or not Sherlock cares for me. He just… says it differently than most people."

Dean pursed his lips and gave a sigh, looking outward across the field. He couldn't really fight that, because the very man driving him nearer to his own death was so much like that. An angel, half-incapable of understanding the feelings of humans and how deep they ran, an angel who never said I love you, but made Dean understand that he did in a thousand other ways. Dean felt his heart clench painfully and his gaze trailed up to the sky.

Could they see them down on earth? Could they hear their prayers, their anguish? Could Castiel see how goddamn much Dean was suffering. He dropped his empty bottle on the ground and fished out another. He'd be damned if he sat and wallowed on this car, with this cold, British doctor beside him, totally sober.

"If we cure this demon," John asked quietly after some time, "what next?"

Dean frowned. "What do you mean? For us or for the demon?"

"Both," John said.

"Well the demon becomes human and has a second chance to enter heaven. Not as easy as it sounds though, let me tell you. The last demon we cured was that psycho dude in the mental hospital. Luckily this one here doesn't have the years of torturing humans, murder and mayhem on his conscious that Crowley did. But I doubt it'll be easy no matter what."

"And for us?"

Dean shrugged. "I'm not sure what you mean about that. We just… go on. I mean, I don't know a lot about the Nephilim so I can't really tell you what's going to happen with Sherlock but, we just go on with our lives."

"And with the thing that let this demon out, will he let out another? Will another one come after Sherlock?"

Dean licked his lips and gave a little sigh. "Probably. Unless we find a way to seal the crack in hell."

"So why aren't we trying to do that instead of making you two feel better about your mistakes?" John asked, his voice going suddenly hard. "Forgive me for my insensitivity Mr. Winchester, but it seems like a lot more is at stake than your good conscience."

Dean's hand clenched around his beer bottle and he felt his face go red. It wasn't just the offending question, but the fact that John was right, and the Winchesters' most stupid mistakes had always been when they were self-serving. Shit. But Dean just couldn't bring himself to take it in another direction. Not after everything he'd been through, and the doctor pointing that out was really starting to piss him off.

"The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, you mean?" Dean asked, his jaw tight. He looked at John who didn't seem to get the reference and he rolled his eyes. "It doesn't always work that way, Dr. Watson. I understand that more people can be put in danger if another demon gets out, but we're equipped to deal with that. Up until last year, Hell was wide open and we were able to deal with it just fine. We'll get our information eventually."

"Unless you die first, leaving the rest of us to clean up your mess," John said quietly.

Dean frowned. "That was always a risk I had to take. It's a risk I've been taking since I signed up for this gig, okay? I don't think you quite understand how this has all worked. My brother and I stopped the apocalypse. We've saved the world so many damn times I can't count. I've died more than any human rightfully should, and yet here we still are. And if the risk right now is that one more black-eyed son of a bitch can get out because I save my brother, it's a risk I'm willing to take."

With that, Dean hopped off the Impala and decided to go for a walk. He had his phone, and he knew if Sammy needed him, he could call. He passed by the shed and he could hear cackling, Adam taunting both Sherlock and Sam, but he knew they had it under control. He just needed some space. Just for a little while.

~*~

Dean lost track of time by the river a mile away from the shed. He had good signal, and with no calls or texts, Dean sort of forgot about what was going on until the sun started to dip low into the sky. It had been five hours, and he was starved, tired, and really, really sober.

The trek took him another half an hour, but that meant it was just under three hours left before they could declare Adam cured. He figured if something had gone wrong, if Adam had escaped, if anyone had died, he would have been told as much.

The first thing Dean saw upon approach was the shed. All the doors were still shut, and the dusty, dirt-covered window was intact. Baby sat where she'd been when he left, and John was not there, but Dean hadn't expected the doctor to hang around. He strolled up to the trunk and rummaged around until he came up with a bag of jerky, shoving a huge piece in his mouth. His two discarded beer bottles, and John's one were still there, and the cooler was still full.

Helping himself to the drink, he wandered back over to the shed and pressed his ear to the door. It was eerily quiet, the kind of quiet that made Dean a little nervous, but not nervous enough to stroll in, just in case. He glanced back over at the car, considering grabbing a weapon, but that was his last thought before pain exploded against the back of his head, and everything went dark.

When he came to, his entire body was throbbing, and upon inspection, completely immobile. It was dark, but he wasn't sure if he was wearing a blindfold, if he'd gone blind, or if he was stuck somewhere without light. He wiggled his hands but found them bound with what felt like duct tape behind his back.

Under his cheek was cold, firm ground, concrete most likely, and he tried to sit up, but found his legs were twisted behind him in a really akward postion which made sitting up impossible. He groaned and turned his head, but found more, pressing darkness.

"Dean?" came a fevered whisper from his right.

"Sammy? What the hell is going on?"

"It was the doctor," Sam said. "I think he might be possessed, because he burst in, knocked me out, and the moment I was coming to, he threw you in here with me."

"How long have I been out?"

"Twenty minutes or so," Sam said.

The boys hushed as they listened to voices on the other side of the door, and one was distinctly Adam, and the other Dr. Watson. Missing was the rough baritone of Sherlock, which made the boys wonder if he was already dead. Two demons would likely have a hard time taking down a Nephilim unless it was by surprise, or by some other method of distraction.

"Do you have anything on you?" Sam asked. "I've been trying to get out of this damn tape for over an hour."

Dean began to wriggle on the ground, moving his feet toward the sound of Sam's voice. "In my shoe," Dean hissed quietly. "Pull the sole down on my right shoe and there's a small, silver knife in there."

It took skill and an impossibly long time before Dean was able to move his feet into Sam's hands, then for Sam to find the right shoe and the knife, but nearly thirty minutes later, they were free and crouched beside the locked door. Dean concluded they were in the small supply closet off the shed's back door, and from the faint trickle of artificial light, the sun had set and their hour window to give Adam his next dose had long since passed.

"We need consecrated ground at home," Dean grumbled quietly.

Dean didn't need to see Sam to know his brother was rolling his eyes, and he felt Sam's hand fall down on his shoulder. "Well, we can burst in and take them by surprise, but I'm not sure we'll have any luck without weapons."

"You got a better option?" Dean asked. "Cuz I don't, and everything we need is in the car. Not to mention there's no back way out of here. And they probably know we're awake by now."

He felt Sam's large shoulder rise and fall against his. It was all Dean needed to reach his foot up and connect with the door. It flew open, and standing inside the demon trap was John Watson, staring down at Adam who was still tied to the chair.

Sherlock was in the room as well, bound as tightly as the boys had been, and gagged. He was propped up against the door, and gave the barest shake of his head when the Winchesters approached John.

"Christo," Dean said. Adam's eyes flared red, but John's stayed the same. "Are you serious?"

John turned then, pointing the gun at Dean's head, and motioned for him to step aside. "What was that? A spell?"

"A test, which you passed, and I think that freaks me out more than anything," Dean said, holding up his unarmed hands while John backed him up to the wall. "What the hell, man?"

"I'm taking care of business," John said, his jaw tight and eyes wide. "You both, and Sherlock it seems, refuse to see what needs to be done." His voice had a high-pitched, strained quality to it. "I need to do this. I need to find out how to end this torment!"

"Hey man," Sam said quietly, getting John's attention. "This isn't going to make things better, or easier. There are always going to be people and monsters out there who want to kill him," he nodded to Sherlock, "and want to kill you. Closing hell, sealing that little crack isn't going to make on damn bit of difference."

John faultered, but only for a second. "It will help enough. I'm so sick and tired of… of everything. Of EVERYTHING!" and he turned, glaring at Sherlock who was meeting Dean's eyes. His eyes flickered, just for a second, to the window.

Dean's head twisted slightly and he swore he thought he saw something, but he couldn't be sure. He took a step to the side, but John was back on him with the gun. Dean threw up his hands and froze. "Look, we're all in this together, okay? Okay, man? We wouldn't have come all the way to the fucking UK if it wasn't to help you."

"He's lying, you know," drawled Adam with a wicked grin. "Do you know what he did to me, Johnny-boy? Did he tell you? Did he tell you how he was given a choice, the option to save me, and he didn't? He didn't because it could mean leaving his precious Sammy behind? Did he tell you how he had me, he had me and he let me go, he let the sadistic angels take me from his own hands because they hurt Sammy, and they would have hurt his beautiful Cas? Don't you realize that he'll do anything, including sacrificing your life, and the life of Sherlock, to get what he wants?"

John's hand was trembling and his finger twitched over the trigger of the gun. "I…"

"He's a demon. Demons lie," Sam cried out.

"Mmm, oh you know that's not strictly true, Sammy boy, don't you. You know that sometimes demons tell the truth, with great pride, because we know that the truth hurts worst of all."

Tears were leaking out of John's eyes as he steadied his gun hand. "I'm sorry, but I can't let you."

It all sort of happened in a flash, really, and later, when Dean tried to recall it, it was blurry. He winced as the gun went off, and he expected the pain, the blackness, the inevitable death that he couldn't be brought back from. Instead what he found was his face meeting concrete, and his nose snapping, the pain of it making his eyes water, and through the tears he saw the red liquid spilling to the ground beneath him.

He felt the body that had shoved him to the side go limp, and hair falling into his face. He thought for a moment it was Sam, Sam lying on top of him, bleeding onto his shirt, but the hair wasn't Sammy's hair. It was thick, rich, black curls and the body was lighter than his brother's.

There was a second crash after that, and another thud as a body hit the floor, and when Dean came to his senses enough to push Sherlock off him, he saw John's body laying unconscious just a few feet away from Sherlock's. Dean glanced up at the window, his vision still blurry from his nose, but he recognized the face in the window through the broken glass.

It was Henry Knight, and a second later, Dean spotted the brick that the younger man had thrown, knocking John out. Dean pressed his shirt sleeve to his nose to stop the blood as Sam rushed to the door, letting Henry in. They bound John's hand, keeping a firm eye on Adam who looked, for the moment, quiet and defeated.

Dean, meanwhile, checked on Sherlock. He'd been shot in the chest, but he'd live. From what Dean remembered, he was like an angel, stronger in fact. He'd survive this. Sam came to patch Dean up once John was secure, and despite the pain of having his nose popped back into place, he felt okay.

"Fuck," Dean gasped as he crouched against the wall, Sam's hands on his shoulders. "I almost died."

"Yeah, you did," Sam said. His voice was shaking, too, and his face was pale with fear.

Dean swallowed and shook his head. He'd been afraid, he realized. Afraid to leave the world, afraid to leave Sam behind, and everything else. He'd been afraid to die. "I don't um…" he trailed off.

Sam's nod and watery eyes told Dean that his brother got it. He understood. "We've gotta get them secure."

Dean glanced back at the church and had an idea. Sam had done enough, and Sam could handle everyone else with Henry at his side. Adam needed to be cured, and the truth was, Dean needed to be the one to do it.

~*~

"I'm…" the voice was so quiet, Dean barely heard it as he sat in the chair, exhausted from blood loss, pain and listening to Adam use every trick in the book to let him go. They only had one dose left, one and then it would be over. And Adam might die, or Dean might die, but it was working.

Dean looked up at his brother, in the wrong body, but still his brother. "I'm sorry," Dean said. He'd said it before, but it was in this moment he could actually mean it. "If I could go back, I'd make the same choice, but if I could go back further, I would have never let that son of a bitch take you in the first place."

"I know," Adam said. His voice was raw, aching, and tired. His eyes were blood-shot, the skin beneath nearly black, and his head was hanging forward. "I get it, Dean. I do. My mother… I…" he trailed off. He didn't need to finish because Dean had already been there with Adam, down this road, through this pain.

"Look Adam, we just want to seal the cracks, okay. Please," Dean begged. "Help us and we'll end this, and you can be done."

Adam nodded, his head weak and heavy. "You just need… need his blood. There's a ritual, it's in the archives. He can also open a crack to heaven you know, and pull him out. I don't um… I don't know how exactly but, he should. He should know. It's in his nature."

Dean plunged the syringe into his arm and drew the blood. Adam didn't fight him this time, just laid there limply as Dean depressed it into his neck. Tears leaked from Dean's eyes, and from Adam's as Dean cut his palm open. With his free hand, he cupped Adam's face and caught his eyes. "No matter what, you're still family. And I'll never forgive myself for what I did to you. I wish we had a better chance to know you. I wish we'd had a family, the family we all deserved. A better father, and … and more than this."

"I know," Adam croaked.

"It would be easier if you never forgave me," Dean said. Then he began the chant. Fire raced up his arm, painful and engulfing as the words spilled from his lips. He had no idea how he managed to remember them through the pain, through the power coursing through his body, but when his hand clamped over Adam's mouth and it all just poured from the tiny cut along the lines of his palm, he screamed almost as loud as Adam was.

The power threw him back, the concrete feeling ten times harder than it should have, and for a moment Dean thought his spine had cracked. But then his breath returned and he was gasping as he crawled onto all fours. Adam was in the chair, and he was gasping and flailing, and there was blood just pouring from the back of his head and mouth. His eyes were rolling, but he was smiling, looking gruesome as his teeth were coated in blood.

Dean watched him go, though he couldn't actually see him leave the body, but the last word he gurgled, Dean would forever swear was, "Mom."

~*~

"So the suicide was not faked," Sherlock said from his position by the fireplace in the sitting room. Dean had cleaned up, eaten, and taken six Advil before he told everyone else about what happened. Sam managed to locate the incantation to seal heaven, which, in hindsight, they all felt stupid for not searching for it.

Sherlock and Sam had performed the ritual while Dean was in the shower. No one could confirm if it actually worked, but Sherlock seemed both certain and a little in awe of his own abilities once he'd actually done something with his own powers.

They were in the sitting room now, Sam sitting with Henry at his side, Sherlock looking concerned, and Dean happily sucking down a cup of coffee. After everything, he just wanted a little caffeine boost, and to sleep off the pain in his nose.

John was still unconscious, drugged by Sherlock once they'd gotten him back to the compound. Everyone was a bit shaken by what happened, but in the end, they all sort of… understood. On some level, everyone, including Sherlock, expected John to snap. They just didn't realize the potential consequeces.

"Will he be okay?" Sam asked quietly, carding his fingers through Henry's hair gently. "I mean… in the end?"

"I'm sure we'll work through it," Sherlock said. "He's been through enough."

Dean nodded and then yawned, despite the caffeine he'd just ingested. "I think I'm going to call it a night. As long as you got your eye on that dude, anyway."

Sam rolled his eyes and waved his brother off. "Just go. You need the sleep."

Dean nodded and went to his room, closing the door and collapsing in the cold dark. His bed felt empty, and he was lonely, but for the first time he knew for sure, he wasn't ready to go.

~*~

It was well past midnight when Sam finally found Sherlock standing outside, staring up at the stars. Sam had spent the last few hours in bed, with Henry, doing things that even now made him blush. Now he was in a hurry to help his brother, because Sherlock and John had set course back to the UK, and Sam wasn't about to let them leave without trying.

"Apparently I can sense people now," Sherlock said quietly as Sam stepped out onto the porch.

Sam smiled and he leaned against the railing. "Are you sure it wasn't just listening to me walk up?"

"Normally that would be correct, however you're skilled at hiding your noise. You naturally attempt to blend in with the sounds of your surroundings. Something I believe you were taught as a young child."

"Seven," Sam said with a sigh. "But that's a story for another time."

"You're here to ask me for a favor regarding your brother," Sherlock said. His hands were clasped behind his back, and he didn't wait for Sam to ask how he knew. "That was logic. It was the next logical step before we left. Being that I have some apparently natural ability to reach into heaven and pluck down a soul—or angel, as it were—and bring him to earth, I supposed you would be asking me to do such a thing."

"You didn't think Dean would?" Sam asked, his quiet voice carrying across the dark.

"Your brother feels himself unworthy. He's loyal, to a fault, and willing to make the hard choices in life, much as John does. They are eerily similar in some respects. I believe you recognized that at one point."

Sam gave a nod, leaning even further on the railing, letting his hair hang down in his face. He smelled like Henry a little still, a bit like cigarettes and mint, and he liked it. "Dean will never forgive himself for choosing me over Adam, but he'd never regret that choice. If I had been in danger, like John thought you were, Dean wouldn't have stopped. He'd have taken everyone down with him."

"Which is why neither of you attempted to move against him," Sherlock finished for Sam. "Do you regret the death of your younger brother?"

Sam sighed, looking over at Sherlock who was still staring up at the heavens. "No," he said after a minute. "I regret my father's choices in keeping him a secret, though I understand why he did it. I regret not taking better care of him while he was alive. But he was dead, and the angels brought him back, and now he gets to go back to the people he loves. Adam could have been a great hunter, but he wasn't, and he died like one. It wasn't fair, and he didn't deserve that. He also didn't deserve hell, but he was cursed. Like we all are."

"I don't believe you're cursed," Sherlock said. He looked over at Sam and then snorted a little laugh, his smile reaching his eyes. "Then again, I don't believe in curses."

"So will you?"

Sherlock gave a sigh and looked back up at the stars. "Do I belong up there? With them? Part angel, part human."

"I don't know," Sam said. "Castiel took out the only other Nephilim walking the earth. They were considered an abomination and were wiped out."

"I did read the pages on them," Sherlock said with a nod. Sam couldn't tell if he was upset by the knowledge, but he didn't think the detective would be. "I believe that angels are far too like humans. Motivated and consumed by their fear of things they don't understand. Believing that we are more powerful than they are, so they wiped us out before they could stop it. It's a condition, a human condition, and it makes me weep for what is to come next, beyond this life."

"Well if it's any consolation, I've been up there and it's not all bad. You get to pick your heaven."

"If they let me," Sherlock said. "I'm a different case than you or your brother, or even John." Sherlock sighed and took a step back away from the edge of the deck. "I'm not sure if I can do it, but I will try. I suggest you take your leave of me, back to Henry. I don't believe he'll accompany us back to London, not now, possibly not ever, as long as you'll have him." Sam flushed red at the thought of having Henry. Of truly having him, because everything besides Dean he'd ever loved had been ripped away. "John and I will be gone by morning, and you know how to reach me should you ever need, though I suspect, at least for this lifetime, our paths are done crossing."

"Thanks for everything," Sam said quietly. He thought he should hug the detective, or at least shake his hand, but Sherlock wasn't the type, and Sam figured a simple thank you would suffice. He closed the door firmly behind him, catching one last glimpse of the strange, Supernatural detective on the deck before heading back down into the compound.

Henry was waiting, tired but warm, his arms outstretched as Sam slid down into the cool sheets. Henry nuzzled his nose down into Sam's neck, breathing in his scent, smelling himself all over the hunter, and he gave a quiet moan of pleasure.

Sam let his fingers trail up Henry's side, up to the nape of his neck and into the back of his still-growing hair. He kissed him gently, once on the jaw, then down to where his earlobe met his jaw, and Henry moaned. Sam buried his nose into Henry's hair and whispered into his ear, "Stay. Please?"

"Wild horses couldn't drag me out," Henry said, his voice thick and sleepy, but his arms pressing, holding Sam firmly to him as though he thought the hunter might suddenly drift away.

Sam kissed him now, firmly on the lips, his fingertips digging into Henry's skin as he felt another fire burning inside of him. Henry felt it, too, grinning wickedly as he reached down and took Sam into his hands, stroking lazily, without rhythm, but so good, and skilled, and god…

Sam almost lost his breath as he arched into Henry's hand, and he gave him fevered kisses along his jaw, against his shoulder and he ground his hips. Henry chuckled, sounding a mixture of surprised and pleased that he could get Sam to give over like that, this big, strong, fighting hunter in this anxious man's arms. Sam loved it, too, and knew he was falling for this man hard.

He realized, in the moment when Henry was taking him, pushing in with abandon, hitting that spot right there that made Sam cry out against the pillow, that maybe this would last. Maybe this was for keeps.

~*~

He was dreaming again. Dreaming of his hands, wicked and wanton, crawling across his skin, finding all of those places. His breath hot against Dean's neck, and that gravely, impossible voice whispering into his ear. Feathered wings folding over him, holding him so tight, so close, like he would float away on that feeling and drift with Castiel into the void, beyond space, beyond time.

It was only in these dreams that Dean felt whole, and he was half-aware of it, half-aware of his bed, and the stillness of the night. He also started to become half-aware that there was something not dream-like about those hands. Those pressing fingers crawling across his chest, tugging at his shirt, and that hoarse voice whispering, "Dean, Dean…"

And then his eyes were open, and the dream was gone, but the hands were still there. They were tangled in his shirt, and there were tears dripping onto his naked shoulder as lips kissed the puckered handprint scar. Dean's hands went up to the face, inspecting it in the dark, up to the hair and then those eyes shining at him in the soft light from the window.

He had to be dreaming. There was no way this was real. There was no way this son of a bitch wearing that coat and crooked tie, crying over him like this was real. No. It wasn't possible.

"…if you'll have me still," and that was when Dean realized that this figure, this image of Castiel was talking to him. "I agreed and let him pull me from heaven without knowing if you'd have me Dean, but I had to take the risk. It wasn't heaven up there without you. It was hell and I was alone."

It was instinct and animalistic reaction that moved Dean, grabbing onto the coat and flinging Cas onto the bed, pressing him hard, one hand on his throat, the other on his shoulder, his knee pressing just hard enough into Castiel's thigh.

"Who are you?" Dean growled, because of Sherlock fucked up and this was hell's idea of a joke.

"He almost couldn't do it, but I'm here. Human, it was the only option, but I'm here." And god that voice, that achingly hoarse voice that sent shivers and waves of want right down there.

"You're lying," Dean said, because it wasn't possible. He wasn't deserving enough, and the universe was cruel, it wasn't forgiving.

But as Dean stared down into those eyes, impossibly blue, achingly sad and pleading because Castiel, too, never felt deserving enough, Dean sort of just… knew. He knew that maybe Sherlock had been able to do this. Maybe he'd been able to crack the walls and bring back that one soul, and maybe, after everything Dean had done, he'd deserved this one little piece of heaven on earth. Maybe they'd earned a rest, just for a little while.

And then he was kissing him, fiercely, without abandon, and Castiel's lips met his just as desperate, teeth gnashing together, drawing blood, but it didn't matter. Hands were everywhere, pressing and pulling, aching and pleading. And the former angel was whimpering as Dean ripped his shirt apart, and tore his trousers at the seams, absolutely refusing to stop until it was just skin to skin, and the bed beneath them, and there was no telling where one ended and the other began.

He kissed him on the neck, on his chest, feeling Castiel gasp beneath his hands as he worked the once-angel's nipples hard, as Dean pressed his knee between Castiel's legs and edged it up until he was carefully pressed right there. Castiel gasped and arched and clung on to Dean's back, sinking his teeth into Dean's shoulder and making the hunter cry out.

"Please god… please. I can't…" Dean gasped, and then Castiel froze beneath him. His hands crept slowly, carefully up to Dean's face and cupped his cheeks. "I can't do this. You can't be here, you can't be real. I can't have this and wake up with you gone tomorrow." He didn't feel the tears escaping his eyes, but he saw them dripping in the quiet moonlight, right onto Castiel's chest.

"I'm human, so I don't know how long I'll be here. There's no guarantees with this one. I can't heal you, can't heal myself, but I'm here. I'm sorry it was like this, and I'm sorry I left…"

Something in Dean snapped. Something in him, hearing those words, 'I left,' from Castiel's lips, crushed the dam that had been holding back everything. His fist flew and hit Castiel in the face. Again. Again. It trailed down to his ribs as he backed up, hitting him until he felt the bone beneath the skin give way. Castiel cried, gasped, but he didn't fight back. He just laid there until Dean's punches no longer had weight behind them, until he was doubled over, sobbing and just sort of letting his fist flail through the air.

And despite the bloody face and broken ribs and everything that had to hurt beyond measure, Castiel sat up and held Dean and rocked him. He ran his fingers through his hair and he let Dean just cry and mourn and lose everything in that moment.

An hour passed before Dean was able to rise and help clean Cas up. Without the angel's ability to heal himself, Dean had to use the first aid kid, and he did his best not to wake Sam. He felt overwhelming waves of guilt when he saw Castiel's face, the bruises, the swollen skin and blood all over his sheets.

He turned on his desk lamp and appreciated that Cas didn't say anything as he applied gauze and checked his sides. The ribs were cracked, but not broken. Sex was probably out for a few days, but Dean could live with that. Cas winced as Dean spread the final piece of tape on the split skin stretching over his side, and then he sat back, just out of reach.

"Why did you agree to come back?" Dean finally asked, his voice raw and pained. "When you had no trouble leaving, leaving me to begin with. You asked me to give you a reason, and the only one I had, the only thing I had left, wasn't enough for you."

Castiel hung his head and when he spoke, his voice was so quiet Dean had to strain his ears to hear it. "I was afraid. I was afraid of loving you and losing you. I thought that you were going to die, and when you did, I would be in heaven waiting for you. I didn't realize the emptiness that came with shutting those gates and cutting me off from you."

"Always doing the stupid thing," Dean bit, shaking his head. "What you think is right, and it always hurts the most."

Castiel swallowed thickly and didn't say anything for quite some time. "If you'll have me…" he finally bit out, and Dean's head snapped up.

"If I'll have you? You son of a bitch! If I'll have you? Castiel, Jesus!" He rose, throwing his hands into the air. "Every conscious moment I was near death, waiting to just give it up so I might see you again. Whether to kill you or kiss you, I wasn't sure, but there wasn't a moment of my existence that didn't have you in it, even locked up there with those bastards. Every sleeping moment, every time I was locked in my head, you were there. You were there, giving me everything you should have given me on earth, but refused. And you're asking me if I'll have you."

"I'm… Dean I'm… not sure what you mean," Cas said, but he was moving, despite the pain, crawling toward the end of the bed. He was still naked, but neither of them took notice as he reached out a hand to steady himself.

Dean caught him, just as he started to topple forward and that was it for them. Their skin touched, bodies melded, and Dean couldn't hold back. He didn't care if it hurt, not really, and only because Castiel didn't seem to even feel the pain right then as Dean shoved them back onto the bed. The light was on and Dean looked at Cas as he took him into his own hands, pumping him hard and fierce, growling a little and grinding his hips against Castiel's body.

"You're asking if I'll have you…" Dean gasped, and Castiel was moving, shifting himself so Dean could prep him with a finger, squeezing so much lube it dripped all over the sheets, cold and uncomfortable. Another finger and Castiel was crying and bucking against his hands. "There wasn't a moment I ever let you go, you brainless, useless, impossible bastard."

And then Dean took him, hard, shoving in with one, slow, fluid motion. Castiel gasped, arching, his head rising off the pillow despite his pain, and he dug his hands into Dean's shoulder and gasped, "God yes please…"

Dean found his rhythm, listening to himself smack against Castiel's stomach as he pounded harder and harder, feeling himself twitch, swell and throb as Castiel cried out with every thrust. And when Castiel came, Dean couldn't hold back, feeling himself spill right along with the warm, sticky fluid now coating his middle.

When it ended, and he pulled out softly and carefully, Cas tried to give Dean room, some space to catch his breath, but Dean held him firmly in place. He didn't care about the sticky, rapidly cooling remnants of their fluids mixed together, or the spilled lube, or the sweat, tears, and little bit of left over blood from the beating.

What mattered was Castiel here, in his arms. Human or not, he belonged to Dean, and the hunter vowed from that moment on to make sure they never, ever forgot that.


End file.
